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BLANCHETTE AND THE 
ESCAPE • TWO PLAYS BY 
BRIEUX • WITH PREFACE 
BY H. L. MENCKEN • TRANS- 
LATED FROM THE FRENCH 
BY FREDERICK EISEMANN 



JOHN W. LUCE & COMPANY 
BOSTON MCMXIII 






* 2~ 






Copyright, 1913 
By L. E. Bassett 



©CI.A358563 |~- 



PREFACE 

BY H. L. MENCKEN 



PREFACE 

"After the death of Ibsen, 55 says George 
Bernard Shaw, in his preface to the first 
English translation of Brieux's plays, "Brieux 
confronted Europe as the most important 
dramatist west of Russia. In that kind of 
comedy which is so true to life that we have 
to call it tragi-comedy, and which is not only 
an entertainment but a history and a criticism 
of contemporary morals, he is incomparably 
the greatest writer France has produced since 
Moliere." 

A somewhat extravagant statement, perhaps 
— who, indeed, looks for restraint and nice- 
ness in a Shavian preface? — but still one 
with a certain unmistakable flavor of truth 
in it. All the acknowledged giants of the 
French drama since Moliere have been giants 
of dramaturgy rather than giants of truth. 
Working in series from Beaumarchais to Sardou, 
with Scribe as the master of them all, they 
have brought the form of the stage play very 
close to perfection, but they have not added 
much that is of consequence to its content. 
Even the younger Dumas, for all his famous 
revolt against the snarled conventions of 

i 



Brieux 

classicism and romanticism, did no more than 
set up a new convention in place of the old 
ones. The drama of ideas that he preached 
quickly became, in the hands of Augier, Coppee 
and Feuillet, a drama of one idea only. Its 
sole problem was that of the woman taken in 
adultery. In some of these variations upon 
"La Dame aux Camelias," the successors to 
Marguerite Gautier were defended and in 
some they were excoriated, in some they were 
married and in some they were not, but the 
struggle depicted in every one was that between 
such a woman and the moral forces of society. 
The result was an inelastic and monotonous 
type of play, with the so-called drama of the 
triangle as its highest development. After a 
while, indeed, the word "eternal" came to 
be inserted before "triangle," as if this single 
situation were immutable and inevitable, and 
the only proper concern of a serious dramatist. 
Between the early 60's and the early 90's, 
France produced scarcely half a dozen first- 
rate plays in which adultery was not the 
leading motive. Even Brieux, as we shall 
see, was forced to yield something to the pre- 
vailing fashion when he began. 

There were plenty of Frenchmen, of course, 
who saw that this tedious sounding of one note 

ii 



Brieux 

was not realism in any true sense, despite 
its obvious superiority to the childish roman- 
ticism that had gone before it. One of them 
was Emile Zola, and throughout the 70's he 
maintained a vigorous war for what he called 
naturalism on the stage — that is, for an 
accurate and unsentimental representation of 
human life as it really was, with the stress 
laid unequally upon no one of its elements. 
But Zola, though a novelist of the first genius, 
had very little skill at playmaking, and the 
failure of his experiments worked serious 
damage to his theory. By one of the curious 
coincidences of literary history, the collapse 
of his propaganda came at the very moment 
another and far greater dramatist was con- 
verted to it. The convert was Henrik Ibsen, 
the Norwegian, whose first social drama, "A 
Doll's House," was given to the world in the 
last days of 1879. Ibsen was not long in 
conquering Germany and his native Scan- 
dinavia, but in France, as in England and the 
United States, he made so little impression 
that he remained almost unknown for ten 
years. By the time "A Doll's House" got to 
Paris, indeed, a blow for the new naturalism 
had been already struck by one of Zola's 
countrymen. This rebel was Eugene Brieux. 

iii 



Brieux 

His "Blanchette" was done at the Theatre 
Libre on February 2, 1892. It was not until 
more than two years later — to be exact, 
on April 20, 1894, — that "A Doll's House" 
was presented at the Vaudeville by Mme. 
Rejane. 

Just how much Brieux owes to Zola and to 
Ibsen it is not easy to determine with cer- 
tainty, for his personal reticence is such that 
he has told us very little about his intellectual 
history, and the only forerunner he has openly 
praised is Augier. But it must be plain that 
he felt the influence of both men during his 
formative period, if only indirectly, for in the 
earliest of his serious plays one finds both the 
laborious accuracy of the one and the pene- 
trating iconoclasm of the other. "Blanchette," 
in truth, might pass muster as an experi- 
mental work by either of them. The picture of 
the Rousset home in the first and second acts 
is thoroughly Zolaesque in its piling up of small 
details, and the attack upon popular education 
is made by the elaborate reductio ad ahsurdum 
which Ibsen employed so often and so devas- 
tatingly. And in the plays following, * we find 
Brieux making a more and more effective use 
of the same methods and materials. Bit by bit 
he moves away from the orthodox content and 

iv 



Brieux 

structure of the French drama of his time. On 
the one hand, he rejects all the old conventions 
of form, and on the other hand he works a 
revolution in dramatic purpose. In both direc- 
tions, he has gone further than any of his 
countrymen, and in the case of the former, in- 
deed, further than any other living dramatist, 
save perhaps Shaw and Gorky. Some of his later 
plays, in a current phrase, are veritable " slices of 
life," without either formal beginning or formal 
ending. He does not bring his curtain down 
upon an affecting reconciliation, nor even upon 
a thrilling tragedy; he merely brings it down. 
But all the while, of course, he remains too 
much the Frenchman ever to lose his dra- 
matic sense entirely, and so even his most horta- 
tory plays — for example, "Maternite" and 
"Le Berceau" — are occasionally enlivened by 
scenes which a Sardou or a Bernstein might 
envy. In the midst of his rebellion against 
empty artificiality he has managed to learn some- 
thing from his opponents, and his later works, 
particularly "La Foi," "Les Hannetons" and 
the second version of "Maternite," reveal a 
very marked improvement in craftsmanship. 
You will get some measure of this progress 
in technical skill by putting the second of the 
plays in the present volume beside the first, 



Brieux 

and remembering that four years separate 
them. "Blanchette," for all its approval by 
critics and public, is still full of amateurish 
blemishes, but in "The Escape* ' the author 
keeps a firm grip upon his material. 

These plays have been chosen as representa- 
tive of Brieux's theatre because each marks 
a high point in his progress. It was the pro- 
duction of "Blanchette" by Andre Antoine, in 
1892, that brought Brieux his first success and 
lifted him to a definite position among con- 
temporary French playwrights: until "Les 
A varies" overshadowed it, indeed, he was 
chiefly known to the boulevards as Vauteur de 
"Blanchette" And it was "The Escape" 
("L'Evasion") that opened the doors of the 
Theatre Frangaise to him, and won the honor 
of being crowned by the Academy, and paved 
the way for his election to the Forty fourteen 
years later. Both reveal very fairly his peculiar 
talents and his characteristic weaknesses. In 
each he depicts a small group of persons with 
Meissonier-like painstaking and realism, and 
in each he launches his javeline against a sham. 
But in each he is so deadly in earnest that he 
hurts his case by over-statement. After all, 
is there any reason to believe that Blanchette 
Rousset would not have obtained her teacher's 

vi 



Brieux 

post in six months more? And is it fair to 
charge against the school system the fact that 
she is pursued by men wherever she goes to 
merchant her learning — and actually driven, 
in the original version of the play, to prostitu- 
tion? Likewise, in "The Escape,'' isn't it 
true that Brieux's attack upon medical fads 
is hindered rather than helped by the fact that 
he makes his Dr. Bertry less a faddist than a 
downright charlatan? So in many of the later 
plays, the mark is overshot, the untypical is 
mistaken for the typical, the argument finds 
its answer in its unsound premises. I need 
cite only "Suzette," "Menages d'Artistes," 
"La Berceau" and "Les A varies." In each 
of them Brieux states a case which, in part at 
least, misrepresents the thing he attacks. 

An even more serious charge against him 
is that of Philistinism: the standpoint from 
which he argues is not so much that of the 
constructive revolutionist as that of the im- 
movable bourgeoisie. It is not to be wondered 
at, perhaps, that a man of his humble origin 
and narrow youthful associations should see 
life from that angle, but in more than one of 
his plays he reveals a complete lack of under- 
standing of his butts as well as a complete 
lack of sympathy with them. This is notice- 

vii 



Brieux 

able in the very first of his serious plays, 
"Menages d'Artists," in which his onslaught 
Upon the so-called symbolist movement in 
French poetry is quite as notable for its mis- 
conceptions as for its ferocity. It is noticeable 
again in "The Escape," where his attack 
upon the theory of inherited traits seems to 
be unaccompanied by any suspicion that there 
is, after all, a lot of support for it in demon- 
strable facts. And in some of his later 
dramas his argument against a given idea is 
no more than an argument for a platitude 
standing opposed to it. In no less than three 
plays, for example, he preaches the pious 
doctrine that a child constitutes an unbreakable 
bond between husband and wife, and that it is 
their prime duty to sacrifice all personal in- 
clination to its welfare — a doctrine assaulted 
with murderous fury by August Strindberg. 
Here, indeed, Brieux takes his definite departure 
from Ibsen, and from all the acknowledged 
followers of Ibsen. His propaganda is not for 
the abandonment of an outworn morality, but 
for its resuscitation and reaffirmation. He has 
no Nietzschean doubts about the impeccability 
of the family, the value of the simple and 
lowly virtues, the moral order of the world. 
Even when he is most furiously assailing exist- 

viii 



Brieux 

ing institutions, it is always evident that his 
wrath is directed, not at their ancient essentials, 
but at their modern embellishments. The brief 
that he holds is for respectability, for "sound" 
views, for " right-thinking " men — in M. de 
Segur's stealthily ironic phrase, for "decent 
folk." He is not the sophisticated and cynical 
Frenchman of the boulevards and Anglo- 
Saxon tradition, but the stolid and God-fearing 
man of the people — der Bauer im Frack. 

But perhaps the best way to get to an under- 
standing of the growth and nature of Brieux's 
ideas is to examine his plays seriatim — leaving 
out of consideration, for the sake of brevity, 
the two that are given here and the three 
printed under the imprimatur of George 
Bernard Shaw. They reveal, with two excep- 
tions, a serious moral purpose, and after 
"Blanehette," a rapidly increasing mastery 
over the materials of the theatre. Whatever 
one may say about them, there is certainly 
no lack of artistic courage in them. Brieux 
discusses the most grave — and, inferentially, 
the most dull — of human problems with un- 
failing address and plausibility, and even when 
he himself seems to be puzzled by them, as 
in "Maternite," for example, he is yet ex- 
tremely interesting. Not many French in- 

ix 



Brieux 

stitutions, whether social or political, have 
escaped his sardonic inspection. In "Les Bien- 
faiteurs" he is on the trail of fashionable charity; 
in "Resultat des Courses" he is preaching 
thunderously against betting; in "L'Engrenage" 
he is exposing both the wiles of politicians and 
the credulity of their dupes; in "Les Rem- 
plagantes" he is picturing the horrors of wet- 
nursing; in "Les Hannetons" he is directing 
a fire of satire at the foes of marriage; in "La 
Frangaise" he is defending his countrywomen — 
i.e., his bourgeois countrywomen — against the 
libellous misrepresentations of the boulevard 
dramatists; in "La Robe Rouge" he is bringing 
a terrible incitement against the French judicial 
system. But whether his method be that of 
the satirist, as in "Les Hannetons" and "Les 
Bienfaiteurs," or that of the grim and unpity- 
ing social vivisectionist, as in "Resultat des 
Courses" and "Les Avaries," he always con- 
trives to be on the respectable side of the 
question, and he always keeps the fact in 
mind that a stage play, to hold an audience, 
must have action in it — that the doctrine it 
lays down must be presented in terms of a 
conflict. Brieux is a million miles from Scribe 
and the well-made play, despite his acknowl- 
edgments to Augier, but he never tries to 

x 



Brieux 

make the drama static instead of dynamic, 
as Shaw does in "Married." 

The first of Brieux's plays to reach the stage 
was "Bernard Palissy," a one-acter in verse, 
written in collaboration with Gaston Salandri 
in 1879, when the author was barely twenty- 
one. The central character, of course, is 
that Bernard Palissy (1509-1589) who in- 
vented the art of enamelling pottery, and 
the scene is his house at Saintes. He has 
been reduced to great poverty by his costly 
experiments, and his wife Genevieve is demand- 
ing that he abandon them and go back to his 
profitable glass-painting, fitienne Gautier, the 
fiance of his daughter, Jeanne, adds pressure 
to this connubial persuasion, but Jeanne her- 
self stands by him. Jeanne, indeed, is willing 
to sacrifice her love to her father's dream, but 
a kind fate makes this unnecessary. A terrific 
explosion is heard in the workshop. Palissy 
rushes off in despair, but a moment later 
returns in triumph. The secret of the enamel 
has been found! "Bernard Palissy" had its 
first and only performance at the Theatre 
Cluny on December 21, 1879. It has never 
been translated into English. 

"Le Bureau des Divorces," which followed, 
was also written in collaboration with Salandri. 

xi 



Brieux 

It was published in 1880, but has never reached 
the stage. P. V. Thomas, in his monograph 
on Brieux, dismisses it as a cheap farce, "thin, 
stale and not amusing," but points out that 
its attack upon the French divorce law shows 
the early bent of Brieux's mind. It was 
followed by an unproductive interval of nearly 
ten years, broken at last by "Menages 
d'Artistes" in 1890. Probably preceding the 
latter in date of composition, but reaching the 
stage four days later, came "La Fille de 
Durame," a melodrama of revolutionary days, 
with the usual outfit of brigands, spies and 
gendarmes. It was written for a Rouen audi- 
ence and had its first performance at the 
Theatre Frangais in that city on March 25, 
1890. It bears no sort of relation to the rest 
of Brieux's work. 

"Menages d'Artistes" (1890) is important 
as the play which brought Brieux to the at- 
tention of Andre Antoine and gave him his 
first serious hearing in Paris. It is a bitter, 
and not always convincing satire upon the art 
four Vart movement of the 80's, with the 
symbolist poets as its targets. Jacques Ter- 
vaux, a ridiculous member of that brotherhood, 
is married to a simple girl who believes in 
his loud claims to genius. Even when he 

xii 



Brieux 

launches into an undisguised affair with Emma 
Verner, a wealthy dilettante, poor Mme. Ter- 
vaux is unsuspecting. Not so, however, her 
shrewd old mother, who sees through this 
coalescence of soul mates at once, and presently 
turns Emma out of the house. Jacques fol- 
lows, and the two set up a pretentious literary 
journal. But it suspends publication after a 
few numbers and Emma goes off with another 
man. Bankrupt in art and pocketbook, Jacques 
then commits suicide — a tragic ending for a 
somewhat rough farce. The piece has its 
moments, but in general its satire is hope- 
lessly ignorant and Philistine. What it offers, 
indeed, is not an incisive criticism qf the 
symbolists, but merely an ill-natured lampoon 
upon them. 

Two years later came "Blanchette" (Theatre 
Libre, February 2, 1892), and seven months 
afterward "M. de Reboval," or, as it was 
first called, "M. le Senateur" (Odeon, Septem- 
ber 15) . It is in this piece that we first find 
Brieux voicing his eloquent argument for the 
homely virtues, the respectable point of view. 
Its intrigue is very simple and not at all 
original. M. de Reboval, a rich and powerful 
Senator, maintains two establishments and has 
two children, the one legitimate and the other 

xiii 



Brieux 

by a mistress. All goes well enough so long 
as the children are young, but when they 
grow up they meet and fall in love, and 
Reboval has to tell them the truth. They 
turn upon him and favor him with virtuous 
denunciations in Brieux's best manner, and 
at the end he acknowledges the viciousness 
of his life and begs for pardon. Mr. Thomas 
professes to regard the play as an attack on 
the bourgeois, but in reality its moral is one 
that all honest bourgeois must approve. It 
pleads for lawful monogamy in a serious tone 
quite as plainly as "Les Hannetons" pleads 
for it in tones of raillery. 

"La Couvee" (1893) shows Brieux's first 
interest in a theme which was later to engage 
him in "Les Trois Filles de M. Dupont" 
and other plays: to wit, the evil worked by 
parents who seek to determine the whole 
future of their children. It is, however, in a 
lighter vein than its successors, and is given 
distinction by a very amusing clash between 
the mothers of the young folk. This scene 
was afterward turned into a one-acter under 
the title of "L'Ecole des Belles-Meres," an 
English version of which was printed in the 
Smart Set during the summer of 1913. "La 
Couvee," which is in three acts, was first 

xiv 



Brieux 

played by an amateur dramatic club at Rouen 
in 1893. Ten years later, on July 9, 1903, 
it was presented in Paris, again under private 
auspices. "L'Ecole des Belles-Meres" was 
done at the Gymnase on March 25, 1898. 

"L'Engrenage," which followed "La Couvee" 
in 1894, is a three-act comedy of politics, and 
its two aims seem to be to expose the bribery 
which flourishes in France quite as balefully 
as in America, and to satirize the fickleness 
of a politician's following. Remoussin, an 
honest provincial, is forced into standing for 
the Chamber of Deputies by his ambitious 
wife and daughter, and is elected after an 
exciting campaign. Before long he is beset 
by lobbyists for a tunnel scheme, and one of 
them, a rascal named Morin, succeeds in 
inveigling him into taking 25,000 francs, 
not as a personal bribe, but as "a contribu- 
tion to the charities of his district." The 
transaction becomes public and Remoussin 
throws himself upon the mercy of his constit- 
uents, pleading his lack of private profit and 
his good intent. What is more, he pays over 
the 25,000 francs to the Attorney- General. 
But the voters of the district denounce him 
as a thief, the while they give cheers for the 
less honest and more crafty Morin. The play 

xv 



Brieux 

had its first performance at the Theatre de la 
Comedie Parisienne on May 16, 1894, but 
was moved to the Theatre des Nouveautes 
on June 4 following. 

"Les Bienfaiteurs," which came after it, is 
a satire upon organized charity, showing on 
the one hand the pitiful insincerity of those 
who manage it, and on the other hand the 
lack of gratitude in those who benefit by it. 
The play is in fpur acts and had its first 
performance at the Theatre de la Porte St. 
Martin on October 22, 1896. It was followed 
on December 7 of the same year by 
"L'Evasion" ("The Escape"), which saw the 
light at the Theatre Frangaise, and has re- 
mained in the repertoire of that house ever 
since. On October 8, 1897, came "Les Trois 
Filles de M. Dupont" (Gymnase), a return, 
in serious mood, to the theme of "La Couvee." 
The play is printed in Shaw's volume of Brieux 
translations. Its successor was "Resultat des 
Courses" — the cry of Paris newsboys with 
racing extras, — which was done at the Antoine 
on December 9, 1898. Here we see how Arsene 
Chantaud,, an honest workingman, is ruined 
by a chance success at the races. Once he has 
fingered unearned money, the gambling fever 
has him in its clutches, and he proceeds from 

xvi 



Brieux 

idleness to actual theft. In the end he is 
arrested for vagrancy. Brieux entered a Paris 
factory to get atmosphere and color fpr this 
piece, but the workmen quickly penetrated 
his disguise. It is in his most earnest manner. 
"Le Berceau," which had its first perform- 
ance at the Theatre Frangaise on December 
19, 1898, ten days after "Resultat des Courses," 
is the first of three plays dealing with a new 
"eternal triangle" — the husband, the wife and 
the child. Raymond Chantrel and his wife 
have been divorced, and Mme. Chantrel has 
been married again and is now Mme. de 
Girieu. The child of the first union, a boy 
called Julien, has been awarded to the mother 
by the court. One day he falls desperately 
ill at the home of her parents, and his mother 
and father are brought together at his bedside. 
They pass days and nights of anxiety there, and 
gradually their old love awakens. But they 
determine to stand firmly against it in justice 
to Girieu — and then the dramatist solves a 
knotty problem by catastrophe. That is to 
say, he has Chantrel and Girieu meet in physical 
combat and go over a precipice together. A 
splendid scene of the theatre, but scarcely a 
logical resolution of the situation. The signifi- 
cance of the play lies in its attack upon 

xvii 



Brieux 

divorce. Its theme appears again, though 
with variations, in "La Deserteuse" and 
"Suzette." 

After "Le Berceau" came "La Robe Rouge" 
(Theatre du Vaudeville, March 15, 1900; 
Theatre Frangaise, September 23, 1909), per- 
haps the most effective dramatically of all 
Brieux's plays. It is a devastating attack 
upon the administration of justice in the 
French courts, and no doubt had its inspiration 
in the Dreyfus case. Mouzon, a provincial 
magistrate, smarting under newspaper criticism 
for his failure to apprehend the perpetrator 
of a murder and eager to attract the favorable 
notice of his superiors, fixes upon an ignorant 
peasant named Etchepare as the culprit, and 
then proceeds, by shameless bullying, to manu- 
facture enough evidence to convict. Among 
other things, he extorts from Etchepare's 
wife the story of a disgraceful episode before 
her marriage — an episode hitherto unknown 
to Etchepare himself. After a long trial, the 
man is finally acquitted, but his home is 
destroyed and he departs for America. Then 
Yanetta, the wife, driven to distraction, seizes 
a paper-knife on Mouzon's desk and plunges 
it into his heart. The role of Mouzon af- 
forded great opportunities to the actor, Hugue- 

xviii 



Brieux 

net, and his performance helped the piece 
to success. Brieux withdrew it from the 
repertoire of the Theatre Frangaise when 
Huguenet left the company, in July, 1911. 
The play was done in London as "The Arm of 
the Law" by Arthur Bourchier. 

"La Robe Rouge" was followed by "Les 
Remplacantes" (Antoine, February 15, 1901), 
an attempt to maintain the somewhat obvious 
thesis that the custom of putting babies out 
to nurse is injurious to the chili itself and 
demoralizing to both the mother and the wet- 
nurse. Lazarette Planchot, a peasant woman, 
goes up to Paris to nurse the baby of Mine. 
Denisart, a wealthy society woman, leaving 
her own offspring to the tender mercies of her 
drunken husband and her avaricious father- 
in-law. One day a telegram comes from her 
home, telling her that her baby is very ill, 
but Mme, Denisart is expecting guests and so 
conveniently forgets to hand it to her. Next 
day, however, she learns its contents and at 
once departs for her home. There she finds 
that her husband is throwing away her earn- 
ings in a wine-shop and carrying on an affair 
with another woman. She puts this other 
woman to flight, brings her husband home, 



xrx 



Brieux 

and throws herself into a battle for her baby's 
life. The infant Denisart is forgotten. 

"Les A varies" is next in the Brieux canon. 
It was written in 1901 and put into rehearsal 
at the Theatre Antoine in the autumn of that 
year, but the censor forbade its performance, 
and it did not actually reach the stage in 
Paris until February 23, 1905. But mean- 
while Brieux had read it to several private 
audiences and it had been played at Liege 
and Brussels, and, if I do not err, in Switzer- 
land also. John Pollock's English translation 
was published by Shaw in 1910, and on March 
14, 1913, it was given a private matinee per- 
formance at the Fulton Theatre in New York, 
under the auspices of the Medical Review 
of Reviews. There was some disposition on 
the part of professional Puritans to object to 
public performances, but a number of clerical 
uplifters came gallantly to the rescue, and the 
play was soon afterward openly presented. 
At the conclusion of the New York run, the 
company proceeded to a tour, and before the 
end of the year "Damaged Goods" had been 
set before the theatre-goers of two dozen 
cities. Its presentation was the signal for an 
avalanche of so-called "sex" plays, but the 
majority of them were so plainly meretricious 

xx 



Brieux 

that the police finally interfered, and several 
of the worst were either disinfected or wholly 
prohibited. 

A year after "Les Avaries" Brieux wrote 
"La Petite Amie" (Theatre Frangaise, May 
3, 1902), a return to the theme of "Les Trois 
Filles de M. Dupont," this time with a tragic 
ending. M. Logerais, proprietor of a large 
dressmaking establishment, is bent upon marry- 
ing his son Andre to a rich girl, but Andre 
has fallen in love with Marguerite, one of his 
father's shop-girls. In an American play the 
easy solution would be an elopement, but by 
the French marriage law Andre cannot marry 
without his father's consent until he is twenty- 
five. It is too long for the lovers to wait, 
and so they dispense with the knot. When 
Marguerite finds that she is about to become 
a mother they throw themselves into the 
Seine. After "La Petite Amie" came "Mater- 
nite," and as the Shaw translation shows, 
Brieux wrote two endings for it, the second 
being much superior to the first. Its successor 
was "La Deserteuse" (Odeon, October 15, 
1904), in which Brieux had the aid of Jean 
Sigaux. Here we have another consideration 
of the effect of divorce upon the children. 
Forjot, the father, remarries after his wife 

xxi 



Brieux 

runs off with a musician, and his daughter 
Pascaline is brought up in ignorance of her 
mother's sinning. Years later the latter returns 
to the scene and tries to win Pascaline's love. 
For jot then tells the whole story, and the 
broken-hearted Pascaline turns her back on 
her mother. 

There followed " 1/ Armature " ( Vaudeville, 
April 19, 1905), an unimportant dramatiza- 
tion of a novel by Paul Hervieu, a fellow 
dramatist. After it came "Les Hannetons" 
( Rennaissance, February 3, 1906), which has 
been done into English and presented in the 
United States by Laurence Irving, first as 
"The Incubus" (Hackett Theatre, New York, 
April 27, 1909) and later as "The Affinity" 
(Comedy Theatre, January 4, 1910). It deals 
amusingly with the adventures of Pierre Cotrel, 
an "advanced" thinker, who shows distrust 
of the tyrannies and responsibilities of marriage 
by setting up unofficial housekeeping with one 
Charlotte, a simple-minded working-girl. But, 
alas for poor Pierre, he quickly finds that a 
"free" union is quite as lacking in actual 
freedom as a marriage with bell and book. 
Charlotte henpecks him, is unfaithful to him, 
and finally runs away from him. He then 
determines to depart from the scene of their 

xxii 



Brieux 

experiment himself, and gets together his small 
savings — 200 francs — for the purpose. But 
just as he is about to go, Charlotte is carried 
up the stairs. She has tried to commit suicide 
by jumping into the Seine, and Pierre, as in 
duty bound, pays the 200 francs to her rescuer! 
A grimly ironical little comedy, well voicing 
Brieux's Philistine distrust of the revolution- 
aries who propose to make over the funda- 
mental institutions of Christian society. 

"La Frangaise," which followed (Odeon, 
April 18, 1907) , is a defense of French woman- 
hood against foreign, and particularly American 
misunderstanding. The principal personages are 
Mme. Gontier, the young wife of an elderly French 
manufacturer, and one Bartlett, an American 
friend and business associate of her nephew. 
Bartlett's notion of Frenchwomen has been 
gained from popular plays and novels, and so, 
when Mme. Gontier shows him politeness, he 
mistakes it for an invitation and attempts 
to kiss her. She quickly hauls him up, and 
he is later enlightened as to the true morals 
of French wives, and all ends happily. Brieux's 
secondary target in the play, of course, is the 
conventional drama of the boulevards, with 
its monotonous variations upon the theme 
of adultery. A bit of the dialogue between 

xxiii 



Brieux 

Bartlett and Mme. Gontier will serve to show 
the nature of his protest: 

Bartlett. For ten years I have been reading your French 
novels; pictures, as I understood them, of French morals. Not 
one was there in which a woman did not deceive her husband. 
I arrive at Trouville, and everything there is most easy-going 
and irresponsible. At Paris I go to the theatre, four nights 
running to four different theatres, and yet I am hardly able to 
believe that I am not seeing the same play. I am not entirely 
correct — the last one I saw was different from the others — 
the heroine did not have a lover — she had three. And the 
women that I have met in Paris — 

Mme. Gontier. You must not judge Frenchwomen by our 
novels nor our plays, nor yet by the Parisian ladies who have 
been so hospitable to you. And it is necessary that you should 
learn that, in spite of all that you have read, in spite or all that 
you have seen, you know nothing of either the literature or the 
women of this country. . . . Thank God that despite vilification 
there are honest women in France. They are those you do not 
see, the great majority, who live wrapped up in their husbands 
and their children and their homes — in those homes where 
you foreigners never penetrate. They are the women that 
you do not see on the boulevards, nor meet in promenades at 
concerts, nor in those centres of debauchery where you, the 
foreigners, are the best clients. 

Of the remaining plays, "Simone" (Theatre 
Frangaise, April 13, 1908) deals with a hus- 
band's murder of his unfaithful wife, and with 
the effect of the crime upon their daughter; 
"Suzette" (Vaudeville, September 28, 1909) 
is a return to the theme of "Le Berceau" 
and "La Deserteuse"; "La Foi" (His 
Majesty's, London, September 14, 1909) is 
an argument for the necessity of faith; and 
"La Femme Seule" (Gymnase, December, 

xxiv 



Brieux 

1912) is a tract against the "emancipated" 
woman, with passages reminiscent of "Blanch- 
ette." The husband in "Simone" is Edouard 
de Sergeac. Just before the play opens he 
surprises his wife in the arms of his best 
friend. Mad with rage, he shoots her and 
then turns the weapon against himself. The 
lover commits suicide. But the husband re- 
covers from his wound. His future existence 
is consecrated to his daughter Simone, who is 
six years old when the tragedy happens, and 
who is led to believe that her mother has 
been the victim of an accident in the hunting 
field. Simone grows up happy by the side 
of her father, who adores her, and for her 
sake keeps her in ignorance of the character 
of her mother. In this he succeeds until the 
day comes when a young neighbor, Michel 
Mignier, asks her hand in marriage. Then 
the truth is out. Mignier fere institutes 
inquiries, learns of the suspicious weighing on 
De Sergeac and breaks off the marriage. It is 
a love match, and Simone is inconsolable. She 
in turn questions her father, and in a poignant 
scene he confesses that fifteen years before he 
had been guilty of a serious wrong, but he 
refuses to give her any details. Through the 



xxv 



Brieux 

incautiousness of an old servant, however, she 
learns the facts. 

In the original version of the play Simone's 
discovery that her father's hands are stained 
by the blood of her mother sends her from him 
in loathing. She trembles in his presence, 
shrinks from him and refuses to forgive him, 
and the curtain falls on her departure. The 
first-night audience at the Theatre Frangaise 
found this ending unsatisfactory, and Brieux 
willingly changed it, as he had changed those 
of "Blanchette" and "Maternite" before it, 
making Simone forgive her father and marry 
Michel, whose love overcomes the elder Mig- 
nier's objections. 

In "Suzette" we see how Henri Chamfort, 
a decent young fellow, is led into suspicions 
of his somewhat gay wife by the evil sugges- 
tions of his parents, who dislike her. Finally 
he drives her out of the house and she takes 
their child, Suzette, with her. Henri is eager 
for a divorce, but Regine, conscious of her 
innocence, refuses to agree to it, and even 
threatens to denounce Henri for a secret fraud 
if he persists. But in the end she is forced 
to acquiesce in order to save little Suzette, 
who is the helpless victim of the whole lament- 
able quarrel. In "La Femme Seule" we see 

xxvi 



Brieux 

a woman's struggles to maintain herself in the 
face of masculine competition. Therese, the 
woman, is an orphan without a dot and so 
she cannot hope for marriage. She goes into 
the world as a journalist, but ill fortune 
pursues her, and later she also fails as a book- 
binder. In the end she succumbs to a lover. 
The play aroused much discussion in Paris, and 
Brieux himself told the Matin that he planned 
it as a protest against the disinclination of 
Frenchmen to marry doweriess wives — a dis- 
inclination that is filling the country with old 
maids, and disorganizing all those industries 
in which women can compete with men. 

" La Foi," which Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree 
presented upon a grand scale in London, with 
music by Camille Saint-Saens, is the only one 
of Brieux's later plays which does not deal 
with the men and women of today, and even 
here the theme has its modern hearings, 
despite the early Egyptian setting of the story. 
The central character is Satni, a young Egyp- 
tian priest who has travelled in far countries, 
and brought back skepticism. He sees his 
people bowing down to false gods; worse still, 
he sees the girl of his heart, Yaouma, going as 
a willing sacrifice to the terrible river god. 
Against all this degrading superstition he lifts 

xxvii 



Brieux 

his voice, and because he has eloquence, the 
people listen to him. The false gods are over- 
turned; Yaouma is saved. But Egypt without 
a religion is now in worse case than Egypt 
with a false religion. The restraints of the 
priests thrown off, the people proceed to 
childish lawlessness, and Satni himself is forced 
to make some effort to turn them back. In 
the end, of course, the old gods triumph. The 
human soul demands a rock and a refuge: 
an unreasoning faith is necessary to man. * * * 

Brieux was born in the old Temple quarter 
of Paris on January 19, 1858, and is the son 
of a carpenter. He began his schooling under 
the Freres de la Doctrine Cretienne, but was 
soon removed to the Ecole Primaire, or public 
primary school, and from there proceeded to 
the Ecole Primaire Superieure. This was as 
far as he ever got, for his parents died when 
he was fifteen and he had to shift for himself. 
He obtained a small clerkship and determined 
to continue his studies on his own account, 
but the difficulties of Greek grammar cooled 
his enthusiasm for learning, and he was soon 
devoting most of his leisure to miscellaneous 
reading. He was seventeen before he entered 
a theatre for the first time, but meanwhile 

xxviii 



Brieux 

tie had read most of the great plays in the 
French repertoire and had also made himself 
acquainted with a good many foreign works, 
including Goethe's "Faust." This last stirred 
him to the depths, and he himself has told 
us that he "got drunk upon it." Not much 
money reached his till in those days and he 
could not afford to pay for lights for reading, 
so he would seek the bright places along the 
boulevards, a 25-centime book in hand, and 
there read by the free gaslight of the 
municipality. 

A reserved and studious lad, he took little 
part in boyish games during his schooldays 
and had few friends as a youth. His dearest 
ambition, toward the end of his teens, was 
to become a missionary to the heathen, but 
the Marquis de Segur tells us that this aim 
began to lose its attractions as he came to 
.realize that there were "as many heathen in 
Paris as in the distant wilds." In place of it 
there arose an irresistible desire to write, or, 
more accurately, to teach, and its first fruits 
were several one-act plays, chiefly in verse. 
The Paris managers showed little interest in 
these productions, but after a time — he was 
then a month short of his majority — he got 
a production at the Theatre Cluny, on the 

xxix 



Brieux 

south bank of the Seine, for "Bernard Palissy." 
It had a single performance at one of the 
Cluny's matinees des jeunes and was thereafter 
heard of no more. A year later it was pub- 
lished in a thin pamphlet. The same year 
he and Gaston Salandri wrote "Le Bureau des 
Divorces." 

By this time Brieux had determined upon a 
literary career, and like many another young 
author before him, he turned to journalism 
as a preliminary means of livelihood. His be- 
ginnings were made at Dieppe, where he spent 
several years as reporter and editor. Then 
he was called to Rouen to take the editorial 
chair on La Nouvelliste, and there he attained 
to a very respectable position as a journalist. 
What is more important, this service gave 
him that firm grip upon vital problems which 
has been his distinguishing mark ever since. 
On the one hand, he was kept aloof from the 
kaleidoscopic literary fads of the Paris boule- 
vards, and on the other hand he was compelled, 
by the exigencies of his calling, to give con- 
stant and serious attention to the malaises 
of civilization. He became the typical journal- 
ist — a bit of a politician, a bit of a lawyer; 
even a bit of a priest. He learned something 
about everything under the sun; he began to 

xxx 



Brieux 

work out theories of amelioration and reform; 
his earlier missionarying impulse began to take 
on coherence and direction. The result was a 
return to play-writing — but now he had 
something to say. The first manager to find 
it out was Andre Antoine, who had established 
the famous Theatre Libre in 1888. Antoine 
accepted the provincial editor's "Menages 
d' Artistes" early in 1890, and it was presented 
at the Theatre Libre. The play failed of a 
popular success, but it convinced Antoine of 
the author's talents, and thereafter he was 
an invaluable ally and adviser. Since then, 
either at the Libre, or at the Antoine and the 
Odeon, he has produced six of Brieux's plays 
— "Blanchette," "Resultat des Courses," "Les 
Remplagantes," ''Les A varies," "Maternite" 
and "La Frangaise." 

La NoMvelliste suspended publication early 
in 1892, and Brieux came up to Paris. A few 
months before this " Blanchette" had been 
presented at the Theatre Libre, with Antoine 
himself as Pere Rousset, and its success had 
been so great that the author, now thirty-four 
years old, found himself a celebrity in the 
capital. He was still unwilling, however, to 
trust his whole fortunes to play-writing, and 
so he sought and obtained a post on the 

xxxi 



Brieux 

Figaro and continued at journalism for half 
a dozen years longer. But after the acceptance 
of "L'Evasion" by the Comedie Frangaise 
toward the end of 1896, the managers of Paris 
began to show a great eagerness for his manu- 
scripts, and since 1898 he has devoted his 
whole time to dramatic composition. "L'Eva- 
sion," "Les Trois Filles de M. Dupont," "La 
Robe Rouge" and "Les Avaries" served to 
fortify his position: both the critics and the 
public began to give him very respectful 
attention. In 1910, he received the honor that 
is the goal of all Frenchmen of letters: election 
to the Academie Frangaise. By the irony of 
fate, the vacant seat among the forty immortals 
was that of Ludovic Halevy (librettist of 
"La Belle Helene" and "La Grande-Duchesse 
de Gerolstein"!), and there were two formidable 
rival candidates, Alfred Capus and Georges de 
Porto-Riche. But Brieux was chosen, and on 
May 12 he was formally received by his new 
brethren. 

The Marquis de Segur, in his address to the 
candidate on that occasion, reviewed the pro- 
found impression that the early work of Brieux 
had produced, and attempted to define his 
relation to the other French dramatists of the 
day, "Accustomed to the methods of the 

xxxii 



Brieux 

usual playwrights," said M. de Segur, "the 
manager of the Theatre Libre was filled with 
astonishment when he read your play. For 
this maiden effort of yours had a startling 
freshness and showed a daring that verged 
upon extravagance. Would you believe it? — 
the author actually championed sound morals 
as against folly, and the family as against 
chaos. He went the length of depicting a 
prosperous home that was not befouled by all 
conceivable vices. He asserted that virtues 
could exist, even outside the purlieus of want 
and starvation. Alongside these audacities the 
play was not lacking in dramatic power. It 
comprised several delightful scenes. The spec- 
tators, though amazed at first, decided to over- 
look its scandalous decency.' ' 

And then M. de Segur proceeded to a de- 
scription of the Brieux type of play — the 
.drama of ideas as opposed to the drama of 
mere intrigue. "The hour had arrived," he 
said, "when a long-indulgent public was be- 
ginning to weary of the poisonous bill of fare 
upon which it had for several years been ex- 
clusively nourished. Certain far-seeing indi- 
viduals were asking themselves whether the 
world was entirely made up of scamps and 
crooks and bad women, and whether there 

xxxiii 



Brieux 

might not exist here and there a few of those 
average people who lay no claim to perfection, 
but who are not altogether deserving of scorn 
and hatred — the people, in other words, who 
are commonly spoken of as ' decent folks.' 
You arrived just in time to justify this dis- 
covery, and you saw at a glance what path 
you ought to follow. You conceived the idea 
of the ' useful play,' whose object is not 
merely to make people think, but to make 
them live more nobly. You limited your 
horizon the better to embrace it; you specialized 
your work, so as to make it the more effectual." 
"The useful play," said M. de Segur — that 
was Brieux's aim and achievement. Some 
called him "the Tolstoi of the Faubourg du 
Temple." He drew his themes from current 
events, from the burning questions of the 
hour, and he treated them with the firm con- 
science of the artist and the profound under- 
standing of the philosopher. He was awake to 
the perils which menaced France, and with 
France, the whole of civilization. He had 
"sounded the tocsin" — an fact, made a pro- 
fession of sounding it. He had gone about 
with "the sincerest fervor, the most robust 
sanity of mind," and yet with "a tranquil 

xxxiv 



Brieux 

good nature that added a charming note to 
the clangor of alarm bells." 

Brieux himself, in the Revue Bleue, once 
stated his artistic creed clearly. "I know 
very well," he said, "what the public likes 
to see on the stage. Its choice is the spectacle 
of a human will which evolves and asserts 
itself. It demands (though without knowing 
very clearly what it demands) that the dramatic 
author should be a Professor of Energy. But 
it seems to me that the dramatic author should 
be an intermediary between the public and 
those great thoughts of great thinkers which 
are ordinarily inaccessible to the masses. He 
ought to offer to the public, in an interesting 
shape, beautiful and generous ideas. Yes, that 
is the role appointed for us: to seduce the 
public by placing the ideas of the philosophers 
within its reach. 

"The theatre will be obliged, more and more 
as time goes on, to devote itself to the study 
of the great topics of the day. There is nothing 
more to be made of the comedy of character — 
Moliere has seen to that. The comedy of 
manners? There is plenty of that in the 
dramas of the day, but it does not animate 
them with the breath of life. Let us therefore 
put a thought into each of our works; and let 

XXXV 



Brieux 

us take it from the life around us, and from 
the sufferings of our fellow-creatures. As Goethe 
said: 'Fill your heart and mind with the ideas 
and emotions of your period — the work will 
then write itself.'" 

— H. L. Mencken. 



xxxvi 



BLANCHETTE 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

ROUSSET A PEASANT 

Mme. Rousset His wife 

Blanchette Their daughter 

GaLOUX A WEALTHY LANDOWNER 

Lucie His daughter, and friend of Blanchette 

George His son 

Mme. Jules Cook at the Galoux's 

morillon a peasant 

Auguste His son 

bonenfant a roadmender 

An Expressman. 
A Postman. 

The action takes place in the country. 
Time — the present. 



BLAXCHETTE 
ACT I. 

The interior of a small village tavern. 

To the left, a slightly elevated counter, on 
which are bottles and empty glasses. In the 
foreground, a round table. On the wall, a shelf 
filled with bottles. A door leading into the house. 

To the right, in the foreground, a glass door 
with white curtains leading to the street. 

In the center, a little to the right, a round 
table covered with oilcloth. 

On the bad: wall hangs a framed, teacher's 
degree; distributed about are : lithographs 

of the four seasons in the form of young, blonde 
and dark-haired, girls: an official notice of the 
law on public drunkenness, etc. There 
also pictures of Carnot and. General Boulc. 

In the background there are two windows 
looking out on to the road. The curtains 
kept back by pots of geraniums. 

September. 

Mme. Rous set is fifty years old. She wears 
a waist and skirt of gray repp, and a blue apron. 
Rous set is sixty years old. He has smooth 
gray hair and a florid complexion. He has on 
gray cloth trousers and a brown vest, with a 
shirt. He wears i silver watch chi 



2 



Brieux 



Mme. Jules is a cook in a good family. She 
wears a black dress and a white apron. 

When the curtain rises Rousset is at the door, 
smoking his pipe. Mme. Rousset is putting 
some vegetables into Mme. Jules 9 basket. 

Mme. Rousset. There's no one at your 
house for dinner? 

Mme. Jules. No. 

Mme. Rousset. You've all you need then? 
You know I'm not in the habit of — you are 
the only one we sell vegetables to. 

Mme. Jules. That's all, mere Rousset. 

Mme. Rousset. [Puts three glasses on the 
counter and fills them with brandy. Then she 
calls] Come in, pere Rousset, come in and 
have a drink. 

Rousset. I'm coming. [He enters] To your 
health! [They all drink] 

Mme. Jules. To yours! 

Mme. Rousset. I'll have to enter some 
things. [She opens a drawer and takes out an 
account book in which she does some entering 
during the following conversation] 

Rousset. Always happy, Madame Jules? 

Mme. Jules. Always! I've been down there 
in the house for twenty-five years now, and my 
husband has been with me twenty of them; 
and we are very comfortable. 



/ 



Blanchette 3 

Rousset, It's really so. How time flies! 

Mme. Jules. Oh, heavens, yes! I knew you 
as a young girl, Elisabeth. 

Mme. Rousset. That's true. We were 
friends before that good-for-nothing over there 
wheedled me into marrying him. 

Mme. Jules. Why, of course. I was even 
your maid of honor. I practically saw your 
daughter born, and I am sure that I love her as 
much as you do. How time does fly! And how 
many times I've come here to buy provisions 
for Monsieur Galoux! 

Rousset. Why here he comes himself. 

Mme. Jules. My master? 

Rousset. Yes. 

Mme. Jules. I'm going. [She drains her 
glass] Au revoir, Elisabeth. Au revoir, pere 
Rousset. 

Rousset and Mme. Rousset. Au revoir, 
Zvladame Jules. [She leaves] 

Mme. Rousset. Is Monsieur Galoux going 
back to the house? 

Rousset. Probably. 

Mme. Rousset. Call him! 

Rousset. Why? 

Mme. Rousset. One can always put in a 
good word for our daughter. That can't do any 
harm. 

Rousset. He'll not listen to us. 



4 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. Yes he will. 

Rousset. You think so? 

Mme. Rousset. Oh, heavens! In three 
months he's going up for deputy — 

Rousset. You're right. Be quiet, here he 
comes. [Raising his voice] How do you do, 
Monsieur Galoux? Your cook just left here. 

[Monsieur Galoux is a man of fifty-five. He 
wears a jacket and a soft hat. His hair is turn- 
ing gray. Enters from the right.] 

Galoux. [Shaking hands with Rousset] Yes, 
I saw her. Well, everything going well with 
you, pere Rousset? 

Rousset. Things are going pretty slowly. 
But come in, Monsieur Galoux, come in. 

Galoux. Thank you. [To Mme. Rousset] 
How do you do, Madame Rousset? 

Mme. Rousset. How do you do, Monsieur 
Galoux? [Rousset has closed the door] 

Rousset. Will you sit down? [He draws his 
footstool out from under the round table] It's a 
wonderful morning. 

Galoux. Yes it is. 

Mme. Rousset. What can I offer you? 

Galoux. Oh, thank you! I never take 
anything before luncheon. How is business? 

Mme. Rousset. Well, you know the shop 
doesn't bring in much. There are days when 
we don't have a single customer. I can tell 



Blanchette 5 

you it's lucky that pere Rousset is tilling our 
land. 

Rousset. And one has troubles besides. A 
piece of land that we bought when business was 
good — we had our tobacco shop then — was 
taken away from us and given to the owner of 
the other tavern — because a former minister 
came to live in a house in Paris where his 
cousin was the concierge. I tell you, things 
can hardly go on like this much longer. 

Mme. Rousset. But that is not the real 
reason why time hangs heavy upon us. 

Galoux. Well, what is the reason? Tell 
me. 

Mme. Rousset. It's on account of Blanch- 
ette — on account of Elise — that is, our daugh- 
ter. When she was small she was always very 
pale, so we called her Blanchette, and that 
name has clung to her ever since. It is on 
her account that — 

Rousset. Why, yes. Look here, Monsieur 
Galoux, people are always talking about the 
government — you who are going to be deputy 
ought to know that. 

Galoux. Oh, but you are going very fast. 

Rousset. Very fast! Let me tell you — 
when pere Rousset says something it's as if a 
lawyer had passed on it. I'm not a fool! I 
never went to school, that's true. And even if 



6 Brieux 

I can hardly read or write there are some people 
whom I could show a thing or two. Well! can 
you tell me what good there is in that piece of 
paper that the government gave to our daugh- 
ter? [He goes to rear of stage, gets on a bench 
and takes down the framed teacher's degree from 
the wall] There are enough seals and signa- 
tures on it. Look, you who have good eyes, 
read it! I'll go and get my glasses. [He goes 
to the counter on which his glasses are lying, and 
puts them on.] 

Galoux. What's this? Ah, it's Blanch- 
ette's teacher's degree. 

Rousset. Yes. It just came back from the 
picture framer's this morning. They can well 
put it under glass, for it cost us enough. 

Mme. Rousset. Only the good Lord knows 
how much it did cost. 

Rousset. It's all right too. [Reading] 
"French Republic — A degree for elementary 
teaching. Teachers — First class degree — Ac- 
cording to the law — According to the ministe- 
rial decree — According to the verbal process — 
According to the certificate — Deliver to Made- 
moiselle Elise Marguerite Rousset this degree." 

Galoux. I understand. 

Rousset. Very good! It's six months now 
since they declared her qualified to be a teacher 
— and now why don't they take her? 



Blanchette 7 

Galoux. Because there are others ahead of 
her. 

Rousset. What do I care about the others? 
Are there any who are brighter than my 
Blanchette? Your daughter, Mademoiselle Lucie, 
can tell you about her, as they went to the 
same school. 

Galoux. My daughter does speak of Made- 
moiselle Elise, who is her best friend, every day; 
you know we take a great interest in your 
daughter. I promise to put in a word to the 
prefect. 

Rousset. Yes — the prefect had better 
hurry, because, you know, these delays, these — 
from a political standpoint they do not make 
a good impression in the canton. I am telling 
you about it. People will say that the work- 
ingmen are not properly protected. 

Galoux. I promise you that I'll look after 
this. 

Rousset. That will be very good of you. 
You know young people must work. You 
didn't make your fortune by twirling your 
thumbs, but in selling good leather. And I 
don't want to have any one lazy in my family. 

Galoux. You are perfectly right. Tell 
Mademoiselle Elise to have patience. 

Mme. Rousset. But the poor thing is so 
bored. 



8 Brieux 

Galoux. Lucie will come and see her very 
soon. 

Rousset. That's right. 

Mme. Rousset. But won't you really take 
anything? Not even a small glass of brandy! 

Galoux. No thank you. I am going now. 

Rousset. Well can we count on you, Mon- 
sieur Galoux? 

Galoux. Yes, but have patience. 

Rousset. Patience! Patience! That's easy 
to say! With all of that, it's always the work- 
ingman who is the fool in the play. The State 
is deceiving us. 

Galoux. But how is that? 

Rousset. Why when it offered to give my 
daughter an education by inventing easy terms, 
concours; by distributing scholarships and mak- 
ing promises! And it should keep its word. 
Formerly I listened to the mayor; and then I 
listened to you, who are in politics. You per- 
suaded me to let my Blanchette go to school 
by making me expect a heap of things, saying 
that she would make money after she received 
her degree. Now she has it, and now that 
ought to let her earn her living and find her a 
position. And remember this, I am not asking 
a favor: no, it is owed to me. There is the 
paper! [Pointing to the degree] It has fallen 
due: it must be paid! 



Blanchette 9 

Galoux. But your daughter must wait her 
turn. The others would complain and say that 
it was an injustice. 

Rousset. What do I care about other 
people! I want what is owed to me! Other 
people's affairs don't bother me. Let them 
protest. Let them settle their own business! 

Galoux. I again repeat that I will see the 
prefect tomorrow. Good-bye. [He leaves] 

Rousset. [Coming doivn the stage] How silly 
of him! We wouldn't need him if it were only 
a question of getting our rights. 

Mme. Rousset. That's true enough! 

Rousset. Is Blanchette up yet? 

Mme. Rousset. Oh, yes! I heard her walk- 
ing about in her room a long while ago. [To 
herself as she goes out] I'll have to wake her 
anyway, the little chit — she'd sleep until noon. 

Rousset. I'll hang this up again. [He 
hangs the degree back in its place. Morillon 
and his son Augusie enter. They have just re- 
turned from the fields. They remove their hats as 
they enter. They sit down at a table and are 
silent for quite a while] 

Rousset. Coffee? 

Morillon. Coffee. 

Rousset. [Takes some cups and saucers from 
the counter. Calls] Wife, bring some coffee. 

Morillon. [To Rousset, who is putting the 



10 Brieux 

cups on the table] Aren't you going to have 
any? 

Rousset. All right, I'll take some, too. [He 
brings a cup for himself and sits down] 

Mme. Rousset. [Pouring the coffee] Fine 
day! 

Morillon. Yes, it's great weather for work- 
ing. [Mme. Rousset leaves] 

Rousset. Look here! Is it today that we 
are going to come to an understanding about 
that piece of land? 

Morillon. Do you always have it on your 
mind? 

Rousset. Well, I surround it on three sides, 
and it bothers me. If it were mine, I could 
plough in a straight line from here right to the 
church. That would be fine! I've been try- 
ing to buy that land from you now for ten 
years. 

Morillon. We're in no hurry. 

Rousset. If you want to, I'll trade it for 
my land along the river's edge, which is almost 
as large — I said "almost." And what differ- 
ence can it make to you who are a wheel- 
wright! You only work on your land now and 
then with your lad there — in the mornings or 
on Sundays. And the bit of land I'm talking 
about is nearer to your shop. 



Blanchette 11 

Morillon. You'd like it very much then! 
Hein? 

Rottsset. Not at all! I'm doing it in the 
interest of every one. Hey, wife, give us a 
drop to drink! 

[Auguste goes bach to look at the degree] 

Auguste. Father! 

Morillon. What? 

Auguste. The degree. 

Morillon. [Softly to his son] It's true then? 

Auguste. It's true. Tell him, father, that 
I want to marry her. 

Morillon. In a minute. [To Rousset] So 
Blanchette is going to be a teacher — like 
Mademoiselle Dumesnil? 

Rousset. Why — it says so there — all 
signed by the government. You can read, 
can't you, Auguste? 

Morillon. What a foolish question! He 
went to school until he was twelve, and he was a 
year in the army. And you know very well 
that he came back a corporal. 

Rousset. Let him read it then. 

Morillon. I guess she has to be pretty 
smart. 

Rousset. Oh, yes! I don't know what she 
doesn't know. Her teacher said that she had 
nothing more to learn. Why the day before 
yesterday there was an instructor here who 



12 Brieux 

wanted to talk politics to her. And, believe 
me, she shut him up pretty quick. 

Morillon. Who? The instructor? 

Rousset. Why not? Do you suppose that 
just because she's pere Rousset's daughter she 
can't be bright? Mademoiselle Galoux is only 
the eighth in the district. And you know how 
Blanchette ranks, don't you? 

Morillon. No. 

Rousset. Well, she is third. 

Morillon. Third! Is she earning any 
money now? 

Rousset. No. But she will when she has 
her position. 

Morillon. Yes, but when will that be? 

Rousset. When! When! Tomorrow if we 
wanted her to. The prefect just told Monsieur 
Galoux to ask us whether we had decided to let 
her go now. But I want her to rest a bit. I 
tell you, you find mighty few like her. 

Morillon. You are right, pere Rousset. 

Rousset. [Going to the table] Will you have 
a drink? 

Morillon. I'll not say no. [He drinks] 
Well, I'll be back soon — and then I'll have 
something to tell you. 

Rousset. About that bit of land? 

Morillon. Yes — and something else, per- 
haps. 



Blanchette 13 

Rousset. That's right. We'll try to come 
to an understanding. See you later. 

[They leave. Rousset carries the cups and 
saucers into the next room without closing the 
door. Calling to Mme. Rousset] 

Rousset. And Blanchette? Isn't she up 
yet? 

Mme. Rousset. She's in her room, drawing. 

Rousset. [Calling] Oh, Blanchette, Blanch- 
ette! Have you finished with your old codger? 
[To Mme. Rousset, after listening] What does 
she say? 

Mme. Rousset. [Still outside] She says that 
she is coming down — that her drawing is fin- 
ished. 

Rousset. Tell her to bring it with her. I'll 
get my glasses. [He gets his glasses from the 
counter and puts them on. He returns to the 
door at the left] All right! 

Blanchette. [Comes in with her drawings] 
Here you are, father! 

Rousset. Come over here! 

[Blanchette is twenty-one years old. She has 
auburn hair, and is neither pretty nor homely. 
She is dressed very simply, but there is a certain 
affectation visible.] 

Rousset. Come, let's see! [He goes to the 
window and looks at the drawing] This one is 
the model, isn't it? 



14 Brieux 

Blanchette. Not at all. That one is the 
model. 

Rousset. By Jove, one can't tell them 
apart at all. Here. [He puts them on the 
table] Wait a moment. [Calling] Hey, there! 
wife! [To Blanchette] Don't tell her anything. 
We'll ask her which one the model is. Come 
here, mother. 

Mme. Rousset. [Outside] But I'm washing 
the glasses. 

Rousset. That doesn't make any difference. 
Come just the same. I'll bet that she won't 
know which one the model is. [Mme. Rousset 
comes in. Her cuffs are turned up, and she is 
wiping her hands on her apron.] 

Mme. Rousset. What do you want? 

Blanchette. Mother saw me doing it, so 
she'll know. 

Rousset. By heavens, that's true! [Looking 
out of the window into the street] Who is that 
going over there? 

Blanchette. That is Bonenfant, the road- 
mender. 

Rousset. Hey, Bonenfant. Come here. 
[He goes to the door] 

Blanchette. Father! Father! Please don't, 
it's not worth while. 

Rousset. Leave me alone — I tell you he'll 
not be able to tell them apart. 



Blanche tte 15 

Blanchette. He doesn't know anything 
about it. 

Rousset. Doesn't have to. [He opens the 
door] Ah, Bonenfant! Come here! 

Bonenfant. What do you want? 

Rousset. [To Blanchette and Mme. Rousset] 
Sh! Don't say anything. 

Bonenfant. [Enters, his hat in hand] At 
your service. 

Rousset. Come over here. Look at these 
two pictures. Which do you like best? 

Bonenfant. Who is it? 

Blanchette. Romulus. 

Bonenfant. Don't know him. 

Rousset. [Bursts out laughing] Ha, ha, ha! 
He doesn't know who Romulus is. He's dead, 
isn't he? 

Blanchette. Yes, father. 

Rousset. Tell him something about Rom- 
ulus — 

Blanchette. Oh, what's the use! 

Rousset. Just to show that you're not a 
stupid girl, and that I did not waste my money 
in sending you to school until you w^ere twenty 
years old. Tell him who Romulus was. 

Blanchette. [In a natural voice] " Romulus 
is considered the founder of Rome. In the year 
776 before Christ, Numitor, king or dictator 
of Alba Longa, was dethroned by his brother 



16 Brieux 

Amulius. His sister, Rhea Sylvia, who was a 
vestal virgin, consecrated to the divine cult, 
became the mother of twins, Romulus and Re- 
mus. " 

Rousset. [Who has been watching his daugh- 
ter with pride] You didn't know that? Nor 
I either. She's not as stupid as us, you know. 

— The other day there was an instructor here 
who wanted to talk politics, and she stopped 
him up as quick as a flash. 

Bonenfant. I tell you, the children of to- 
day! 

Rousset. Now that you know the old codger, 
tell me which one you like best. Sh! Don't 
you others say anything. 

Bonenfant. I like the one as well as the 
other. 

Rousset. But which one is the model? 

Bonenfant. That one. 

Rousset. [At the very height of joy] That's 
Blanchette's drawing! Ha, ha, ha! [He gives 
him a hearty slap on the shoulder] Ha, ha, my 
old friend, if you want to learn more before 
you die you'll have to hurry up and go to 
school. 

Bonenfant. [Also laughing] Of course! — 
You remember, don't you, Blanchette, when I 
used to wheel you around in my wheelbarrow? 

— I never thought at that time — 



Blancliette 17 

Blaxchette. [A trifle embarrassed] Cer- 
tainly, monsieur. 

Boxexfaxt. Ah! So it's "monsieur"! You 
never used to call me "monsieur" when you 
rode on my shoulders, or when you climbed 
trees to find nests like a regular boy. You 
weren't afraid of showing your leg at that 
time. [He, Rousset, and lime. Rousset burst 
out laughing. Blancliette only smiles] Xow she's 
like a princess though. You remember in 
Guimbard's field when their man chased you 
after you had stolen some apples? 

Blaxchette. [Smiling] He had his dog, 
Pataud, with him. 

Boxexfaxt. You remember Pataud? He's 

dead. Well, I'm going, for if you're going to 

begin speaking about Pataud I'll be here until 

tomorrow morning. Good-bye to all of you. 

[He leaves] 

Rousset. Good-bye, pere Bonenfant. And 
he never knew which one was the model. 

Mme. Rousset. We'll have to have it 
framed. 

Rousset. That's right. We'll put it along- 
side of the degree. Oh, by the way, I saw 
Monsieur Galoux this morning. 

Blaxchette. [Anxiously] Isn't Lucie com- 
ing today? 

Rousset, Yes. Don't cry now. [With- 



18 



Brieux 



out ill will] Hem, your Lucie! You can't do 
without her, can you? It's too bad you two 
can't get married. 

Mme. Rousset. You're a fine pair of friends, 
you two! 

Blanchette. [Sincerely, but simply] Yes, I 
am very fond of her. 

Rousset. Her father said that he'd speak 
to the prefect about your position. 

Blanchette. [Playing mechanically with her 
drawing] Ah ! 

Mme. Rousset. Don't throw your drawing 
away. You'll be very glad to have that when 
you're married; then you can hang it up in 
your room. 

Blanchette. When I get married — I'll 
have different sorts of pictures in my drawing- 
room. 

Rousset. In your drawing-room? 

Blanchette. Yes, I want a drawing-room 
like Monsieur Galoux has. And then I want a 
Louis XV bedroom. 

Rousset. Confound it! Listen to those 
dreams ! 

Blanchette. Oh, I have many others. 

Mme. Rousset. What are they? 

Blanchette. There are so many. Then I'm 
going to live in Paris. 

Mme. Rousset. Why? 



Blanchette 19 

Blanchette. I don't like peasants — I 
mean to say — I don't like the country. So 
I'm going to live in Paris in the winter, and 
then I shall travel. 

Rousset. She's off! She's off! But that 
doesn't go with poor people. 

Blanchette. Oh, I know that. But I shall 
be rich. 

Rousset. How's that? 

Blanchette. My husband will be. 

Mme. Rousset. And you think that he is 
coming here to find you, you a daughter of 
inn-keepers and peasants? 

Blanchette. Why not? 

Mme. Rousset. You're putting ideas into 
your head now that are bound to make you 
unhappy later. 

Blanchette. But why not! Madame Du- 
barry was a street merchant, and Rachel sang 
in courtyards — 

Mme. Rousset. I don't know anything 
about them, but — 

Rousset. Let the child build her air castles 
if it gives her pleasure. I'd rather have her 
think of that than of unhappiness. 

Blanchette. Didn't Monsieur Galoux tell 
you what time Lucie was coming? 

Rousset. Xo. [Blanchette goes to the door 
and looks down the street] 



20 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. [Softly to her husband] 
Didn't you notice something? 

Rousset. No. 

Mme. Rousset. Something that made me 
feel badly?' °&\a&<v£A j 

Rousset. No. 

Mme. Rousset. When she said what she 
was going to do when she was once married. 

Rousset. Well? 

Mme. Rousset. She fdrgot us. She said 
nothing about us. One would think that from that 
moment on she was going to ignore us. Rous- 
set — I'm afraid that our daughter is too smart 
for us. 

Rousset. [Laughing] Come, come now, 
mother. You wouldn't want to go into the 
drawing-rooms with the fine ladies. Why 
mother, how would we look. We're only 
peasants. Would you like to make curtsies 
on a waxed floor, and wear forty-franc hats and 
silk dresses! Such things aren't for the like of 
us, you know. They're all right for Blanchette 
who knows how to talk and behave. All that 
we can ask of the good Lord is to be healthy, 
and to have enough work until the end of our 
days. 

Blanchette. [Coming back and talking to 
herself] She's not in sight yet, and she can't 
be late. 



Blanchette 21 

Rousset. [Laughing] Do you know what 
your good old mother was saying? She was 
saying that she wanted to sit in your gilded 
chairs and play the lady. How the gentlemen 
would make fun of you! 

Mme. Rousset. I didn't say that. All I 
said was that you did not say a word about us 
in your plans. 

Blanchette. I — I — yes — but — why of 
course — you would have a nice house in the 
country. 

Rousset. There — you see, mother. And 
we'd spend the whole day in twirling our 
thumbs. Nothing — we'd do nothing at all. 
And I'll want a servant to bring me my hand- 
kerchief. [He laughs] 

Blanchette. That's right. But you had 
better go and change your clothes. Here you 
are at this late hour and not even shaved. 

Rousset. Bah! I'm good enough to stay 
here. 

Blanchette. Lucie and perhaps Monsieur 
George are coming. 

Rousset. Well he knows what peasants are. 

Blanchette. That makes no difference. 

Rousset. You think so? Very well, I'm 
off. I'm going to make myself as handsome 
as a minister. [He goes out left] 



22 Brieux 

Blanchette. What time do you think 
Lucie is coming? 

Mme. Rousset, I don't know. 

Blanchette. [Going to the door] Not yet. 
But yes! There she is in the distance. 
With Monsieur George. [Returning] I'll have 
to hide this. [She rolls up her drawing as well 
as the model] 

Mme. Rousset. But no, leave it here so that 
Monsieur George will see it. 

Blanchette. No, no. [Turning down her 
mother's cuffs] Turn down your cuffs. Your 
apron. Take off your apron. 

Mme. Rousset. But they know very well 
that we are nothing but simple folks. 

Blanchette. That makes no difference. 
[Giving her mother her drawing] Here! Take 
these with you. 

Mme. Rousset. [Going out left] I'll be right 
back. 

Blanchette. So! [She takes a small powder 
box from her pocket; on the inside of the lid there 
is a mirror. She powders her face slowly and 
also fixes her hair. To herself] Oh, my good, 
sweet Lucie! How I love you! And George 
— George. It's nice to be able to say his 
name without adding, Monsieur. [She goes to 
rear of stage] Here they are. [She runs out 
to meet them, and returns embracing Lucie. 



Blanchette 23 

George, twenty-four years old, is in hunting cos- 
tume, and carries a gun. He enters shortly after- 
wards.] 

Blanchette. [Embracing Lucie] How glad 
I am to see you! 

Lucie. And I too! How are you? George 
is going hunting. He brought me here. 

Blanchette. But you'll stay awhile, won't 
you? 

Lucie. Yes, George is going to call for me later. 

Blanchette. How fine! 

George. And don't I get a how do you do? 

Blanchette. Yes, yes! How do you do, 
Monsieur George? 

George. How are you, Mademoiselle 
Blanchette? 

Blanchette. I don't want to be called 
Blanchette. My name is Elise. 

George. All right, Blanchette — 
- Blanchette. Again! 

George. Let me embrace you — 

Blanchette. Silly ! 

George. Just to say how do you do. You 
embraced my sister. [He embraces her when 
she is not looking] 

Blanchette. Ah, Monsieur George! Lucie, 
make him stop. 

Lucie. George, if you don't behave I'll tell 
mamma. 



24 Brieux 

George. [Imitating her] I'll tell mamma. 

Lucie. Will you stop! 

George. I'll leave Lucie in your care. I'm 
going to the beet fields to see if I can scare up 
a partridge; then I'll come back for her. Good- 
bye. [He starts to go] 

Mme. Rousset. [Enters] Monsieur George! 
[To Blanchette] How can you let him go like 
that without making him take something! [To 
George] Monsieur George. What can I offer 
you? 

George. Nothing, thank you. 

Mme. Rousset. [Taking him by the arm] 
Come now! I'd like to see that. Come, 
come. 

Blanchette. But, mother. If Monsieur 
George does not want anything — 

Mme. Rousset. That's all right. You're 
going to drink something. 

Blanchette. [Pulls her mother by the apron. 
Softly] Mother! 

Mme. Rousset. Leave me alone! A big 
fellow like that! He's not afraid of a glass of 
brandy. 

George. But I'm really not thirsty, I as- 
sure you. 

Mme. Rousset. [Pouring out a . glass of 
brandy] One doesn't have to be thirsty to gulp 
that down. That'll give you a pair of legs 



Blanchette 25 

to stand on. [She takes a piece of sugar 
in her fingers and puts it in the glass] Now a 
little lump of sugar — 

Blanchette. Oh, mother, with your fingers! 

Mme. Rousset. Bah! My hands are clean. 

George. That doesn't make any difference. 
[He drinks] 

Mme. Rousset. You see, he's not as finical 
as you. 

George. By Jove, that's strong! 

Mme. Rousset. It feels good going down, 
hein! Good luck to you! 

Blanchette. One must never wish a hunter 
good luck. That always brings bad luck. 

George. No, not any more. Well, I'll see 
you later. 

Mme. Rousset. Good-bye, Monsieur George. 
[He goes] 

Blanchette. [Softly to her mother] Why 
didn't you take off your apron? 

Mme. Rousset. Bah! There's no shame in 
wearing it. 

Blanchette. [Bitterly] And how often have 
I told you that it is not right to force people 
to take something when they don't want to! 

Mme. Rousset. Ah, I never thought of it. 

Blanchette. It becomes tiresome. 

Mme. Rousset. I'm going. Once I'm gone 
I won't make any more breaks. 



26 Brieux 

Blanchette. Mother, mother, you're not 
angry at me — because I told you that? 

Mme. Rousset. Of course not — I'm angry 
with myself. [She goes] 

Blanchette. [To Lucie, who has been read- 
ing a paper] Let me help you off with your 
things, my dear. Here, I'll take out that 
pin. [She helps her remove her hat and veil] 
How I love to wait on you! I wish I could be 
your maid. 

Lucie. No, it is I — I am very glad to see 
you again. [Embracing her] I have so many 
things to tell you! 

Blanchette. And I too! 

Lucie. Very well, begin! 

Blanchette. No, you begin! 

Lucie. Let's sit down first. 

Blanchette. Did you bring your work 
along? 

Lucie. Yes. I have a new stitch in crochet- 
ing. 

Blanchette. How fine! I hope you are 
going to show it to me. 

Lucie. Where shall we sit down? 

Blanchette. [Pointing to the round table] 
Over there. 

Lucie. No. Let's sit behind the counter. 

Blanchette. Oh, my dear! 



Blanchette 27 

Lucie. But it'll be such fun. Just as if we 
were shop keepers. 

Blanchette. All right. [They sit down] 

Lucie. It's very comfortable. 

Blanchette. [Looking at her] Your hair 
isn't fixed as usual. 

Lucie. Oh, because I am not wearing it in a 
knot? It's not the style any longer. 

Blanchette. I'll have to change mine too. 
I like you better the way you have it now. 
Come now, what have you to tell me? 

Lucie. I? Nothing. 

Blanchette. But you just said — 

Lucie. Yes, but I have forgotten. And 
you? 

Blanchette. I've forgotten too. But no! 
It becomes terribly tiresome when you are not 
here. Just like at school. Do you remember? 

Lucie. Yes. 

Blanchette. You beat me sometimes. 

Lucie. I did? 

Blanchette. Don't excuse yourself: I was 
satisfied. Do you remember when we met? 

Lucie. No. 

Blanchette. You were a bit taller and 
stronger than I was. You came up to me one 
day without saying a word and threw the 
candies which my mother had brought me into 
the brook in the garden. I did not dare say a 



28 Brieux 

word. Then you pinched me — very hard. I 
wept, but I was not angry at you. The next 
day you embraced me and brought me some 
dainties. I was very happy. And from then 
on, first you would torture me and then you 
would caress me. It was delicious! 

Lucie. You're an angel. 

Blanchette. I knew that you were rich. 
I had seen your father's carriage, and you ap- 
peared to me to belong to another world, so 
luxurious, so beautiful — and so far away from 
me. 

Lucie. Silly! 

Blanchette. But let's not talk of that any 
longer. Where have you been since the other 
day, and whom have you seen? 

Lucie. Oh, my dear, we spent an evening 
at the Count of Bellerive's. 

Blanchette. Really! And you spoke to 
him? 

Lucie. Why of course. 

Blanchette. How is he? Tall, blond, 
sparkling eyes, distinguished? 

Lucie. Not at all. He's short, fat, bald, 
and he stutters. 

Blanchette. Oh, how unfortunate! 

Lucie. Why unfortunate? 

Blanchette. Did you dance? 

Lucie. The entire evening. My dear, with 



Blanchette 29 

barons, viscounts, marquis. The marquis of 
Hautf ort was there — you know. 

Blanchette. The one who is so rich? 

Lucie. Yes. 

Blanchette. You lucky girl! And did 
George dance? 

Lucie. No. 

Blanchette. Do you think he loves me? 

Lucie. I think so. 

Blanchette. How wonderful! Has he ever 
spoken to you about it? 

Lucie. No. 

Blanchette. And you have never mentioned 
it to him? 

Lucie. Never. 

Blanchette. That's all right then. Do 
you read the feuilletons in the I nde pendente? 

Lucie. No. 

Blanchette. I read all that come into my 
hands. In this number of the Independente 
there are a young man and a young girl who are 
in love with each other, and who die, my dear, 
without ever telling each other about it. It is 
a very pretty story. 

Lucie. But you are not going to die, my 
dear, and you are going to marry my brother. 
I promised it to you and I will keep my word. 

Blanchette. How I love you. Just think, 



30 



Brieux 



if I become his wife, how happy we will be! 
We will never be separated! 

Lucie. You know that George pleaded his 
first ease last Friday, and he won it. His first 
attempt was very much talked about, and a 
recorder prophesied a great future for him. 

Blanchette. He will be a deputy. 

Lucie. Oh, he can have that if he wants to 
when he comes of age. You understand with 
papa's position in the canton. And the 
country is republican. 

Blanchette. Hum! Radicalism. But that 
makes little difference. Once a deputy he will 
soon make himself known. 

Lucie. We will have a political salon. 

Blanchette. And a literary one! I can see 
myself there. My husband is standing at the 
fireplace, explaining his projects; he is sur- 
rounded by serious looking men who listen at- 
tentively to him. Both of us are in ball gowns. 

Lucie. I in black satin! 

Blanchette. You give advice, you expound 
your ideas; while I, surrounded by all the best 
literary talent, serve tea to — 

[The roadmender has entered during the latter 
part of this conversation, but the young girls have 
not seen him] 

Bonenfant. Well, Blanchette, when you 



Blanche tte 31 

have finished chattering you can give Bibi a 
cup of coffee. 

Blanchette. [A trifle piqued] If you care to 
sit down, monsieur, I will call mamma. 

Bonenfant. It sounds so funny for you to 
call me "monsieur" — But I don't want your 
mother, I want a cup of coffee. 

Blanchette. Right away. [She goes to the 
door at the left] 

Bonenfant. [Looking at Lucie] Why, there's 
Mademoiselle Galoux. How d'ye do, made- 
moiselle? 

Lucie. Good day, my friend. 

Blanchette. [Coming back] My mother has 
gone out, monsieur. If you care to stop in 
again 

Bonenfant. Can't you wait on me? 

Blanchette. No. I don't know where the 
things are. 

Bonenfant. Ah! Well, I'll go to the other 
place. All the same, it seems too bad that 
your father sent you to school so long only to 
have you return so unwilling. 

Blanchette. I am sorry. Good day, mon- 
sieur. 

Bonenfant. Good-bye. You're not very 
pleasant to people, I must say. [To Lucie] 
Good day, mademoiselle. Well, I'm off. [He 
goes] 



32 Brieux 

Lucie. Why didn't you give him his cup of 
coffee? 

Blanchette. I don't know where the things 
are. Besides I can't stand those peasants. 
[Mme. Jules comes in] 

Mme. Jules. How do you do, young ladies? 

Blanchette. Oh, they've come to call for you ! 

Mme. Jules. Your father told me to tell you 
to come home as Monsieur, Madame, and 
Mademoiselle Durand have just come, and they 
are going again on the six o'clock train. 

Lucie. Ah, Leonie Durand? [To Blanchette] 
You knew her? 

Blanchette. Of course. I was jealous of 
her because she went to visit you. 

Lucie. You are a dear little fool. Well, 
I'm going. My hat, my gloves, my veil. [She 
goes to the right where everything is] 

Mme. Jules. By the way, Blanchette, please 
tell your mother that she made a mistake this 
morning: she gave me twelve eggs for a dozen 
instead of thirteen. 

Blanchette. All right. 

Lucie. Go ahead, Josephine, I'll follow you. 

Mme. Jules. Yes, miss. Keep well, 
Blanchette. [She goes] 

Lucie. Blanchette, will you tie my veil? 

Blanchette. Oh, my poor dear, I left you 
all alone. 



Blanchette 33 

Lucie. [While Blanchette is busy tying her 
veil] Tell me. I don't like to have our cook 
be so intimate with you. 

Blanchette. If you tell her — 

Lucie. It is for you to tell her. 

Blanchette. Very well. 

Lucie. Good-bye. [They embrace] 

Blanchette. You'll come soon again? 

Lucie. As soon as possible. Good-bye. [She 
goes] 

[Blanchette stays a moment at the door watch- 
ing Lucie. Then she comes back, looking sad. 
She looks about her for a while, as if she were 
looking at the tvalls for the first time, and sighs.] 

Blanchette. Oh, dear, how tiresome it is 
here! [She sits down at the counter] Where is 
my novel? [She takes it out of the drawer and 
starts reading. Rousset comes in in a new 
blouse. He gets his pipe] 

Rousset. [Lighting his pipe] Well, here I 
am. Do I look all right now? 

Blanchette. [Without looking up from her 
book] Yes. 

Rousset. Was any one here? 

Blanchette. No. 

Rousset. You saw Mademoiselle Galoux? 

Blanchette. [After a silence, and then as if 
from a dream] Did I see Lucie? Yes. 

Rousset. You might stop reading a bit 



34 Brieux 

when I speak to you. All you answer is yes 
and no — or you don't answer at all. 

Blanchette. But I answered you. 

Rousset. That's no way of answering. One 
speaks. 

Blanchette. But I've nothing to tell you. 

Rousset. Oh, come now! What did Made- 
moiselle Galoux have to tell you? 

Blanchette. Nothing that would be of any 
interest to you. 

Rousset. By the way, you know mother 
Dufour's horse. Well it died this morning. 
[Silence] Well, did you hear what I said? 

Blanchette. Of course — Madame Dufour's 
horse died. 

Rousset. Well? 

Blanchette. What do you expect me to do? 

Rousset. Well, there's one thing I'll tell 
you, and that is that all those novels are turn- 
ing your head. And one of these days I'll stop 
your reading altogether. You believe all that 
is told in them. From now on I'll only allow 
you to read good books, like travels. 

Blanchette. [Aside] Thank you. 

Rousset. Let me see what you are reading. 

Blanchette. [Puts the novel in a drawer] 
It's something that was loaned to me. There! 
I'll not read any longer. [She picks up her 
crocheting, and sits at the center table] 



Blanchette 35 

Rousset. You had better not. 

[Auguste Morillon and his father enter. They 
are dressed in their best clothes] 

Rousset. Here is pere Morillon and his lad. 
I tell you, those two are never separated. 

Morillon. And I tell you that there are 
very few fathers and sons who understand one 
another as beautifully as we do. Isn't it so, 
Auguste? 

Auguste. Yes, papa. 

Morillon. I haven't a better friend in the 
world than him, and he hasn't a better friend 
than me. We work all during the week, and 
on Sundays we make a little excursion. In the 
evening, after dinner, we sit at home, our el- 
bows on the table, opposite to each other. We 
each smoke our pipes and talk of things of the 
past, and we also build many air castles. 

Rousset. You never find it tiresome? 
, Morillon. No. He is smarter than I am. 
A little — not much. He tells me what he has 
read in his books; he reads the paper to me, 
and there you are! 

Rousset. Ah, you are lucky. But come 
now, let's have our game of dominos. [They 
sit down at right] 

Morillon. I'm ready. 

Rousset. Give us a bit to drink, and also 
the dominos. 



36 Brieux 

[Blanchette starts to rise] 

Auguste. [Who has been watching her] Don't 
you bother. I've nothing to do; so let me get 
the things. 

[After getting the things he returns to Blanch- 
ette and ivatches her work] 

Morillon. I've something to say to you, 
pere Rousset. 

Rousset. About the land? 

Morillon. Yes. 

Auguste. [To Blanchette] You're sad. 

Blanchette. I'm terribly bored. 

Rousset. Well, what is it? 

Morillon. There is a way of getting that 
land — and for nothing! 

Rousset. For nothing? 

Morillon. Aren't you thinking of marrying 
off Blanchette? 

Rousset. Oh! marry off a girl Jike that! 
A smart girl like that! A lass who has her 
teacher's degree! Mademoiselle Galoux, who is 
the daughter of a smart man, she couldn't get 
the degree! 

Morilllon. You don't mean it! 

Rousset. She was — [To Blanchette] How 
do you say it? She tripped up on her oral ex- 
amination. 

Morillon. Hein! 

Rousset. [Playing] Here's the black one. 






Blanchette 37 

Morillon. Four. 

Rousset. Haven't got it. 

Morillon. The four again. 

Rousset. Still haven't got it. 

Auguste. [To Blanchette] Do you remem- 
ber what friends we used to be? 

Blanchette. Yes. And I used to call you 
my little husband. 

Morillon. The three, and then the three 
again. Domino! 

Rousset. You haven't any up your sleeves, 
have you? 

Morillon. Take a look. 

Rousset. The game is mine. 

Auguste. Aren't you thinking of getting 
married? 

Blanchette. I? No. 

Auguste. Ah! Well, I guess that father and 
I might as well have remained at home. 

Blanchette. Why? 

Auguste. Do you know what my father 
came to ask of yours? 

Blanchette. No. 

Auguste. Well, he came to ask for your 
hand — for me. If he had agreed, what would 
you have said? 

Blanchette. I am very fond of you, but — 

Morillon. I'd like to speak about my land, 
pere Rousset. 



38 Brieux 

Rousset. Your land? What land? 

Morillon. Let's not speak of it any more. 
Three. 

Rousset. Five. No, but what land? 

Morillon. No, no, I've said nothing. Four. 

Rousset. What? \^ 

Morillon. Two. 

Rousset. Is it about that David land that 
you want to speak? 

Morillon. I? No. 

Rousset. That's a poor bit of land. 

Morillon. Poor, my land! 

Rousset. Oh, it's a good place to find pebbles ! 

Morillon. Pebbles ! Pebbles ! 

Rousset. Well, how much'll you sell me 
your precious bit for? 

Morillon. You'd like it, hein? 

Rousset. I! Six — and, worse luck, six 
again — dominoi 

Morillon. Aren't there any under the 
table? 

Rousset. No, look! 

Morillon. I'll never sell my land. 

Rousset. Ah! 

Morillon. I'll give it to Auguste perhaps 
when he gets married. 

Rousset. I see. 

Morillon. Yes. Yes, to have my land one 
must have a daughter to marry off. 



Blanchette 39 

Rousset. I understand. 

Morillon. Yes. You don't want to marry- 
off Blanchette? 

Rousset. Ah! Ah! 

Morillon. They'd make a nice couple. 

Rousset. Who? 

Morillon. Those two. 

Rousset. I'll not say no. 

Morillon. Well, now. Will you give me 
Blanchette for my son? 

Rousset. Hein? Blanchette — for — ah, no! 
Ah, no! At that price she'd still be too good 
for your bit of land. Ah, here comes the 
wife. Tell pere Morillon who wants Blanch- 
ette for his son. 

Mme. Rousset. Ah, no! We didn't let our 
lass go to school until she was twenty only to 
marry her to one of the likes of us. 

Rousset. You hear, pere Morillon, you'll 
have to come again when you're a millionaire. 

Auguste. Come, father, let's go! 

Rousset. What! Why go? There's no rea- 
son to get angry. We're not any the worse 
friends for that. 

Morillon. That's all right! 

Rousset. Pere Morillon, that is not possible. 
You must understand that she's too educated 
for you. 

Morillon. All right. Keep your daughter 



40 Brieux 

for a marquis. For the ill that I wish you I 
hope that you'll never repent having made a 
lady of her. Good-bye everybody. 

Rousset. We repent! We'll see, my old 
friend. 

Morillon. Yes, we'll see. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT II. 

The scene is the same as in the first act. 
April. 

Mme. Rousset is sprinkling sand under the 
tables. Blanchette is at the round table working 
on the account books. 

Blanchette. And do you know how 
much that makes in all? Two hundred and 
seventy-five francs. Not one sou more. 

Mme. Rousset. That's quite a lot. 

Blanchette. A lot! You think that's a 
lot! Do you know what you are getting for 
those two hundred and seventy-five francs? 
Here it is itemized: "To painting on the front 
of the house these words, 'Cafe de Ceres,' fifty 
francs." 

Mme. Rousset. Why call it "Cafe de Ceres" 
when our name is Rousset? 

Blanchette. Ceres was the goddess of agri- 
culture. So you see it's the same as calling 
it "Cafe de V Agriculture" only this is much 
finer. 

Mme. Rousset. Will it be to any use? 

Blanchette. [Correcting her] Will it be of 
any use? 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, will it be of any use? 

Blanchette. I have no doubt that it will. 
41 



42 



Brieux 



What gives value to an establishment? Its 
name. You can be sure that that plays a great 
part. 

Mme. Rousset. But — 

Blanchette. No; no, no, don't argue! You 
don't know! I again say that this expenditure is 
necessary. 

Mme. Rousset. All right, I consent. 

Blanchette. Then there is the painting of 
the interior which will cost eighty-five francs. 
That is absolutely necessary. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes. But we usually get 
along with five francs worth of whitewash. 

Blanchette. I know that very well. But I 
want allegorical paintings with Greek borders, 
like in the cities. 

Mme. Rousset. I'll be afraid to come in 
here when it's all so beautiful, 

Blanchette. Then — a beer pump for thirty 
francs. 

Mme. Rousset. But no one drinks beer here. 

Blanchette. If we carry good beer people 
will drink it. Then an ice-cream freezer for 
one hundred and ten francs. 

Mme. Rousset. Ice cream! Ice cream! 
The kind they had at Symphorien's wedding? 

Blanchette. Yes. 

Mme. Rousset. But no one has ever asked 
for that. 



Blanchette 43 

Blanchette. Because we didn't have any. 
And besides, that will be a good advertisement. 
When people ask one another: " Which cafe shall 
we visit this evening?' 5 they will say, "Why, the 
Cafe de Ceres; it's the nicest; and it is the only 
one where they serve ice cream." 

Mme. Rousset. But we'll never sell any. 

Blanchette. That makes little difference. 

Mme. Rousset. Well, since we'll never have 
to use this ice-cream freezer we might as well 
not buy one. That won't stop us from saying 
that we have one just the same. 

Blanchette. And if Monsieur George Gal- 
oux and his friends come one day and ask for 
some, how will we look? 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, but — 

Blanchette. Come, mamma! Let me make 
our fortune. The government is making me 
wait for the position that it owes me. All the 
better! I am consecrating my instruction and 
knowledge to transform this tavern into a cafe. 
I know what I owe to both of you; I know 
the sacrifices that you have had to make, and 
I do not want to wait any longer in order to 
repay you. I am going to make you rich. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes. [A pause] Your 
father would rather see you in a position. 

Blanchette. Father! Let him be! When 
the chemical fertilizer that I have had him put 



44 Brieux 

on his land shows its power he'll not want me 
to leave. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, but up to the present 
nothing has happened in spite of that fertilizer 
of yours, which cost more than all our manure. 

Blanchette. Nothing has happened! And 
why? Because we have had no rain. The in- 
gredients have to be dissolved by rain so that 
the azote and phosphate can get at the roots. 

Mme. Rousset. But it rained last night. 

Blanchette. Did it? Are you sure? How 
fine! It rained! Now you'll see father return 
all radiant. I tell you that will have made the 
wheat grow. [She goes to the door] 

Mme. Rousset. What's the matter with you, 
the way you're always rushing to the door? 
Are you waiting for something? 

Blanchette. Yes. Something that I bought 
in town. 

Mme. Rousset. What is it? 

Blanchette. My gift for father. You know 
that today is his birthday. 

Mme. Rousset. What are you giving him? 

Blanchette. A lamp. 

Mme. Rousset. But we have one already. 

Blanchette. This is a lamp with a column. 
High as that! That's the way they are making 
them now-a-days. Lucie and I picked it out. 
You'll see it. 



Blanchette 45 

Mme. Rousset. But it's probably too hand- 
some for us. 

Blanchette. No, it isn't. Mamma, please 
remember once and for all that we have to 
elevate ourselves. I have told you, haven't 
I, that it is Lucie's and my intention for me to 
marry her brother George? 

Mme. Rousset. Don't think of such im- 
possibilities! Do you for one moment think 
that Monsieur Galoux will let his son marry a 
tavern keeper's daughter? 

Blanchette. No, not a tavern keeper's 
daughter; but he'll not object to a merchant's 
daughter. Of course it is entirely in your hands 
whether you want to be rich within three years 
from now. 

Mme. Rousset. Within three years! That 
is madness, my poor girl. 

Blanchette. You'll see. Nothing speaks 
better than figures. Isn't that true? Well! 
Listen to me. There is a population of two 
thousand in our village, isn't there? 

Mme. Rousset. Two thousand three hun- 
dred. 

Blanchette. Let's call it two thousand. 
Statistics show us that each individual con- 
sumes at least twenty centimes worth of drink 
a day, either in wine, cider, or something else. 
And you will admit that with our projected 



46 Brieux 

improvements we will have at least one quarter 
of the people trading here. That makes five 
hundred. At twenty centimes per person, 
that makes one hundred francs a day. Count- 
ing only on twenty per cent net profit that 
would make twenty francs a day, at the very 
least, that we could pocket; making seven 
thousand francs a year, or twenty thousand 
francs in three years. 

Mme. Rousset. You're off again! 

Blanchette. Well, there is no contesting 
my calculations. They are based on authentic 
figures; on the population, and on individual 
consumption. They are exact; ab-so-lute-ly 
exact. 

Mme. Rousset. I simply can't believe that 
we'll be rich so soon. 

Blanchette. Why not! The time has 
passed where it takes twenty years to make a 
fortune. We are living in the present; we have 
to keep up with our times. 

Mme. Rousset. I do what I can "to keep 
up with our times," as you say. Even if they 
do make fun of me when I say the words that 
you have taught me, or when I wear the hats 
that you make for me, my poor Blanchette. 

Blanchette. What's that? I have told you 
so often not to call me Blanchette. 

Mme. Rousset. That's true. The other 



Blanchette 47 

day, at the Gaillards', when speaking of their 
mother, who is always happy, I said that she 
was an optim — 

Blanchette. Optimist. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, optimist. You see, I 
pronounce it nicely no^w. 

Blanchette. Yes, well? 

Mme. Rousset. They told me that I did 
not know what I was talking about; that the 
word I used meant some one who looked after 
one's eyes. 

Blanchette. Oculist! Ah, how ignorant 
they are! 

Mme. Rousset. But you are sure that you 
are not wrong? 

Blanchette. Why, of course! 

Mme. Rousset. Yesterday, for mass, I put 
on my hat. You know the little one that is 
covered with nothing but flowers and holes. 

Blanchette. Yes. Well? 

Mme. Rousset. Every one made fun of me. 
I'll not wear it again. 

Blanchette. And why! Does one have to 
pay attention to jealous and stupid women! 

[A man comes in with a package} 

The Man. Mademoiselle Elise Rousset. 

Blanchette. I am Mademoiselle Rousset. 
What have you got there? 

The Man. Books. 



48 Brieux 

Blanchette. But haven't you something 
else? A lamp? 

The Man. A lamp — a very tall lamp — 
is that for you? I thought it was for the 
manor. I left it in the wagon. 

Blanchette. It is for us. 

The Man. I'll get it. ^* 

Blanchette. Very well. [He leaves] 

Mme. Rousset. What are all these books? 

Blanchette. Oh, books that I need. [Read- 
ing the titles] On Intensive Agriculture. — On 
the Use of Agricultural Machinery. — The Debt 
to Agriculture. — The Fortune Made by the Use 
of Chemical Fertilizers. — The Product of the 
Soil. — A Treatise on Political Economy. 

Mme. Rousset. You're going to read all 
that? 

Blanchette. And you'll be the one who'll 
profit by it. 

Mme. Rousset. [Who has found the bill] 
But there's some mistake here! It's not 
possible. This isn't your bill. Thirty-two 
francs ! 

BlanchStte. [Looking at it] Thirty-two 
francs — yes, that is a lot. You're right. 
[She puts the bill in her pocket] They made a 
mistake. I'll speak to them about it when I 
go by. You are right. 



Blanchette 49 

Mme. Rousset. Hide it well so that your 
father will not see it. He'll be back soon. 

Blanchette. That's true. But he will 
know what effects the fertilizer has had on his 
wheat — and he will be in good humor. But 
I'll hide it just the same. What a fine birth- 
day he'll have: a beautiful gift — my plan for 
his fortune, and his wheat hardier and thicker 
than any one else's in the district. 

Mme. Rousset. Here he is. 

[Rousset enters. He looks very angry. His 
blouse is drawn up, as he has his hands in his 
pockets. His head is bare. He enters without 
saying a icord, goes across the entire room, sits 
down in a corner, and fills his pipe. A long 
pause.} 

Mme. Rousset. [Softly to her daughter] He's 
not in good humor. 

Blanchette. [Also softly] It's because he 
-hasn't been out to see his wheat. 

Mme. Rousset. Perhaps. 

Blanchette. [Aloud] It rained last night, 
father. You didn't go out to see your wheat, 
did you? 

Rousset. To the devil with everything! 
Don't talk to me! Leave me alone. Yes, I 
have been to see my wheat. 

Blanchette. Well? Didn't the fertilizer 
work? 



50 Brieux 

Rousset. Yes, your rubbish worked. All 
is lost, burned, just as if some one had poured 
vitriol over it. 

Blanchette. It's not possible. 

Rousset. What? 

Blanchette. I say that it's not possible. 
Science is never wrong. 

Rousset. And I tell you that all is lost. 

Blanchette. It can't be. 

Rousset. This is too much! I have just 
seen it. All is lost — my wheat and your 
eight hundred kilos of fertilizer. 

Blanchette. [Nervous] Eight hundred ki- 
los! I told you to put on eight hundred kilos? 

Rousset. Well ! 

Blanchette. Wait a moment. [She looks 
among her papers on the counter] 

Rousset. Ah, you can calculate! They 
teach you fine things at school! At times I 
wonder if it had not been better to bring you 
up as your father and mother were brought 
up. 

Blanchette. [Who has not been listening] I 
made a mistake of one zero. You should have 
only used eighty kilos. Next year you can 
try it with eighty kilos. 

Rousset. Ah, yes! Of course! Your fer- 
tilizer! I'll cultivate my land as my parents 
did, and all your fertilizers can go to the devil! 



Blanchette 51 

Because ail such things are products of the 
devil, nothing but underhand dealings about 
which I know nothing. People ate bread before 
fertilizers were invented, didn't they? I don't 
want any of your ingredients. 

Blanchette. The old-fashioned way! Al- 
ways the old-fashioned way! 

Rousset. Yes, the old-fashioned way. If 
I hadn't listened to you I would still have my 
wheat, and I wouldn't have spent, I don't know 
how much. 

Blanchette. How funny you are! The 
fertilizer — 

Rousset. Now that's enough. I don't want 
to hear any more about it. Luckily, I only 
put it on a small corner — just to see how it 
would work. [A pause] You haven't yet re- 
ceived a letter from the government giving you 
a position? 
. Blanchette. No. 

Rousset. Well, people are making fun of us. 

Blanchette. But, father; I have already 
explained to you — 

Rousset. That's all right. If I were in 
your place I would be ashamed to keep on being 
fed for nothing. [He goes to the right and begins 
to whittle a piece of wood] 

Blanchette. There's nothing to do! I have 
not slept a week now just because I've been 



52 Brieux 

racking my brain to find a way to pay you 
what I owe. 

Rousset. Yes, you "rack," but you are 
praying to God all the while not to find any- 
thing. 

Blanchette. [Timidly] But I have found 
something. 

Rousset. [Still whittling] Ah! So you have 
found something! Well! Speak. If you have 
found something, speak. 

Blanchette. [Without assurance] We have 
to get trade by making this a real restaurant. 
Clean the interior. Paint, on the outside, in 
large letters, Cafe de Ceres. 

Rousset. Some more of your fertilizers? 

Blanchette. No, father. 

Mme. Rousset. That is the same as if it 
were Cafe de V Agriculture. 

Rousset. You know that, mother! Ah! 
And after that? 

Blanchette. Buy a beer pump — an ice- 
cream freezer. Of course, we could do without 
them. 

Rousset. And why not marble tables and 
wicker chairs right away? 

Blanchette. We could make seven thou- 
sand francs a year. I figured it up. 

Rousset. You must have made a mistake 



Blanchette 53 

of several zeros, like you did with your ferti- 
lizer. Is that your plan? 

Blanchette. Yes, father. But if you don't 
let me explain, you'll never know — 

Rousset. Explain — explain. I'm nothing 
but a workingman and don't have to make a 
fortune. All I ask is that the good Lord give 
me enough work until the end of my days — 
that, and also that you get a position soon. 

Blanchette. I assure you that if I showed 
you my figures — 

Rousset. Leave me alone. [He has fin- 
ished whittling his piece of wood] Do you know 
what I am going to do with this bit of wood? 

Blanchette. No. 

Rousset. Did they teach you what to do to 
avert lightning? 

Blanchette. Yes. A lightning-rod com- 
municating with a well or the ground. The 
point attracts the lightning, and the iron is the 
conductor. 

Rousset. All wrong. You take a piece of 
wood from a tree on which a man hanged him- 
self the year before. This piece comes from the 
tree where they found Pierre Lariquot. You 
whittle your wood just one week before Good 
Friday; the following Sunday you soak it in the 
blood of a black hen, and you stick it in the 
middle of the garden. 



54 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. And it's true that a place 
where that has been done has never been struck. 

Blanchette. How can you believe such 
nonsense? Why they are the last vestiges of 
another age. 

Rousset. The — what? 

Blanchette. It's superstition. 

Rousset. The old people of our time knew 
more about it than all of your books. My 
grandfather taught me that. And he got it 
from his grandfather — [With veneration] who 
was a shepherd. 

Blanchette. Lightning, thunder, that's all 
electricity. We know how to conduct it, we 
know how to make use of it. — How do you 
want a bit of wood? — [Laughing] With a speck 
of intelligence — Come, father. Your stick 
whittled on a Friday — and soaked in the blood 
of a black hen. [She laughs] Why, it's ridicu- 
lous. A hen or a rooster, did you say? Ah, 
I don't think you know yourself. 

Rousset. You are making fun of me. 
What proof have you that your books are right? 

Blanchette. Well — 

Rousset. My parents taught me that; I 
loved them, and I believed all they told me — 
and it would grieve me to find out now that 
they were wrong. 

Blanchette, However — 



Blanchette 55 

Mme. Rousset. That's all right. That's 
all right. Don't argue. [A pause] Monsieur 
Galoux asked for his last month's bill. Every- 
thing is written down. All you have to do, 
Blanchette, is to add it up. 

Blanchette. There is a mistake. 

Rousset. I suppose you forgot to put some- 
thing down. 

Blanchette. On the contrary. 

Rousset. Well then, what are you talking 
about? 

Blanchette. I'm going to erase it. 

Rousset. Will you be quiet? Who asked 
you anything? Isn't it enough that you have 
made me lose my wheat without spoiling my 
profits? 

Blanchette. Dishonest profits never bring 
any good. 

Rousset. I suppose you learned that at 
.school. Well, what is there in the bill that 
troubles you? 

Blanchette. The milk and the eggs are 
charged here on the 6th, 7th, and 8th. But 
Lucie and her parents were in the city on those 
days. 

Rousset. That's true, it's a mistake — but 
it's not for us to notice it. [He continues 
whittling] 

Blanchette. I'll rub it out. 



56 Brieux 

Rousset. Leave it, I tell you. 

Blanchette. No, I'll not leave it. It's not 
honest. Why, how would we look? 

Mme. Rousset. [Trying to console her] Be 
at your ease! They never look over our bills. 

Blanchette. All the more reason not to de- 
ceive them! 

Rousset. What difference can it make to 
Monsieur Galoux whether he pays ten francs 
more or less? 

Blanchette. But it's stealing. 

Mme. Rousset. Not at all. When one 
takes something from a richer person than 
oneself it is not stealing. 

Blanchette. Very well then, I prefer pay- 
ing the difference from my own pocket. Thus 
you will lose nothing. 

Rousset. Your own pocket! Your own 
pocket! You're pretty proud with your own 
pocket. Where does the money come from 
that is in your own pocket? Do you earn it? 

Blanchette. When I get my position I'll 
pay it back. 

Rousset. When you get your position! 
That'll be in some week that has four Thurs- 
days. If one had only told me that your degree 
and nothing amounted to the same thing! 

Blanchette. It's not my fault. 

Rousset. Finally, instead of bringing in 



Blanchette 57 

money, you are an expense. You make me 
lose my wheat, and besides, you want to stop 
me from making a living with your millionaire's 
scruples. 

Blanchette. But I ask nothing better than 
to work. Get me a position. Put me in a store. 

Rousset. No one would want you. You 
can't do anything with your fingers. And 
you're too particular to go into commerce. 

Blanchette. Find me something else — 

Rousset. What? Tell me, what? You 
have ideas of great things — ideas that you 
get from your novels. All your reading has 
turned your head. You're good for nothing 
but spending money. For that you are per- 
fect. If you had Rothschild's fortune, you'd 
soon squander it. But for that which is — [A 
man enters] What have you there? 

The Man. It's for you, pere Rousset. 
It's a lamp, and a beauty at that. It comes 
from the Panier fleuri. [He takes the lamp 
out of a basket] It was wrapped up in straw 
with some other things. My Lord, it's big 
enough, too. I thought it belonged up at the 
manor. 

Blanchette. Yes, it's for us. [To her 
father] That is my birthday gift for you. 

The Man. If the address hadn't been on it 
I'd never believed it was for you. 



58 Brieux 

Rousset. [After a pause] Why not? Just 
because I haven't a great coat do I always have 
to read by candle light? 

The Man. I know very well that you at- 
tend to business. That's true. Still you are 
lucky to have a young lady who sends you such 
lovely presents for your birthday. 

Rousset. Yes. She has good taste. 

The Man. [Who has finished mounting the 
lamp] Look. It makes one think one is in 
a drawing-room. 

Rousset. That's true. It's very pretty. 

Mme. Rousset. And it is so ornamental. 

The Man. Is your daughter still waiting 
for her position? 

Rousset. She has it. But we are in no 
hurry to get rid qf her. The government 
will have to wait. 

The Man. Indeed! Well, good-bye, pere 
Rousset. 

Blanchette. [Giving him a tip] Here is 
something for you. 

The Man. Thank you, miss. [He leaves] 

Rousset. How much did you give him? 

Blanchette. Two sous. 

Rousset. You should have given him a 
drink instead. 

Mme. Rousset, But it's the same price. 



Blanchette 59 

Rousset. Yes, but we'd have made our 
profit. 

Mme. Rousset. It doesn't make any differ- 
ence. 

Blanchette. Father, I wish you many 
happy returns of the day. [She embraces him] 
You like the lamp? 

Rousset. Yes, but why is it perched so 
high up in the air? 

Blanchette. It's prettier that way. 

Rousset. It's stupidly conceived. You 
know, we don't have to light up the walls. 
When I have a lamp I want to use it to see 
down here — on the table, when I read my 
paper, or play dominos. 

Mme. Rousset. But if it's the style! 

Rousset, What the deuce do I care about 
style? Are you in style? There's no need of 
using kerosene to light up the ceiling. 

Blanchette. Then you do not like it? Well 
it can be exchanged. 

Rousset. No. Wait a bit — I'll fix it. 
[He takes the lamp and goes out left] 

Blanchette. What's he going to do with it? 

Mme. Rousset. He's probably going to fill it. 

Blanchette. [Looking out of the door] He's 
taking it into the yard. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, the kerosene is in the 
shed. 



60 Brieux 

Blanchette. That's true. [A pause] Oh, 
heavens! how tiresome it gets here. 

Mme. Rousset. I ask myself what you 
lack. Do I perchance find it tiresome? 

Blanchette. Oh, it's not the same thing. 
No one loves me. My father makes me sad, 
and galls me. It's not my fault if I cannot 
earn anything. I studied well at school. I 
have my degree. I have done my duty! You 
see the rest. I am used harshly and treated 
like a stranger. No one understands me. 

Mme. Rousset. Well, what do you want 
us to do more for you? But, I repeat, what is 
the matter with you? Aren't you happy? 

Blanchette. No. Far from it. There are 
nights that I do not get to sleep until dawn, 
after having wept — my head buried in my 
pillow so that no one will hear me. I feel my- 
self so alone, so abandoned. Neither of you 
lave -me as I should be loved. 

Mme. Rousset. Come now! Come now! 
Ah, your father was right, if you didn't know 
how to read or write you'd not invent such 
silly things. 

Blanchette. Invent ! 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, invent. Can you tell 
me why you are crying? Now tell me. 

Blanchette. I don't know. I am bored — 
everything is sad about me. I am bored. 






Blanche tte 61 

Mme. Rousset. Always the same refrain: 
I am bored! Work, and you'll not be bored. 

Blanchette. You do not love me, mother. 
Yes, yes, I know. Yes, you love me very 
much. But just see. There are times when 
I think I am going mad, and when I feel myself 
capable of doing the most horrible things. 
Love me a lot — I weep so often when no one 
is around. 

Mme. Rousset. My poor Blanchette, you 
are sad. But I too have troubles and a great 
many. I am no more the mother that you 
would like; and you are not the daughter that 
I used to love so much. They changed you 
down there. And we understand each other 
but seldom. You talk of weeping when no one 
is about. But I too have often wept in the 
corner all on your account. 

Blanchette. My poor mamma. On my 
account! 

Mme. Rousset. Yes. I never told you that. 
But every time I went to see you at school 
I returned with an aching heart. 

Blanchette. But why? 

Mme. Rousset. Ah, those visits! I shall 
never forget them. When I used to come into 
the parlor and see you playing with your little 
friends — you were gay, happy. But when 
they told you that I had come you lost your 



62 Brieux 

gaiety all of a sudden; your face became hard, 
and you wore a bored expression, and I soon 
realized that my visits caused you a great deal 
of annoyance. 

Blanchette. You are wrong, mamma. 

Mme. Rousset. No/. When I was speaking 
you used to look me over from head to foot — 
you compared my appearance with the mothers 
of your little friends — and — I never under- 
stood it until later — you were ashamed of me. 

Blanchette. Mamma! No! I beg you — 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, yes. I know it. I'm 
stupid, and that is the reason why I didn't 
notice it sooner. I used to tell you what was 
happening here at home, thinking that it 
would interest you, and you used to interrupt 
me to say: — "Oh, mamma! You have no 
gloves on!" or "There are holes in your 
gloves." And I, so happy at seeing you, and 
thinking that you were also happy, would reply, 
"Bah! That makes no difference! If any one 
doesn't like them they can buy me a new pair." 
Foolish, wasn't it? Then you would cau- 
tiously look around to see whether any one had 
heard, and then you would tell me not to 
speak so loud. You wished that I wouldn't 
come again. 

Blanchette. I ask forgiveness! 

Mme. Rousset. But you are not bad. 



Blanchette 63 

However — one day! — how I suffered! You 
thought I had gone — one of your friends asked 
you: "Was that woman your governess?" And 
you did not dare answer. 

Blanchette. Forgive me! 

Mme. Rousset. I felt so badly — and as I 
did not want to say anything to your father 
I told him that I had lost one hundred francs. 
He flew into a terrible fury and almost beat 
me. 

Blanchette. [Falling on her neck] Mother! 
Mother! I beg of you! Don't speak of it any 
more! Never! Never! 

Mme. Rousset. [Holding her in her arms] 
Now you see that I too have had my sorrow, 
my poor Blanchette. Don't cry! It wasn't 
your fault. But it made me feel so badly. 

[They both weep. A pause. Rousset enters 
carrying the lamp. He has sawed off the column, 
and it is now the size of an ordinary lamp. It 
is very ugly. The women separate] 

Rousset. Now she's fixed. 

Blanchette. Oh, what have you done? 

Rousset. I removed the part that didn't 
belong there. Now we'll have light on the 
table. 

Blanchette. [To her mother] My beautiful 
lamp! 

Mme. Rousset. It's better this way. 



64 Brieux 

Blanchette. [Viewing it from a distance] 
You think so? 

Rousset. [To Blanchette] Aren't you satisfied? 

Blanchette. Oh, yes. [She takes the lamp 
and starts to go out left] 

Mme. Rousset. You're taking it away? 

Blanchette. I'm going to fill it. [She 
leaves. Immediately there is the noise of broken 
glass] 

Rousset. [Rushes out left] Ah! The little 
devil! She broke it on purpose! [Outside] 
I'm sure that you did it on purpose! Didn't 
you do it on purpose? 

Blanchette. [Outside] Yes, I did it on 
purpose! Yes, I did. That will teach you a 
lesson. 

Rousset. [Outside] So., that will teach me 
a N lesson, will it? Well, here! Take that! 
That will teach you a lesson. [One hears him 
strike Blanchette, and she cries out] 

Mme. Rousset. [Rushes out] Come, Rous- 
set! That's enough now! 

Rousset. [Enters, holding Blanchette by the 
arm. She is not weeping] Do you still say 
that you did it on purpose? 

Blanchette. Yes. I did it on purpose to 
punish you for your stupidity. 

Rousset. [Raising his hand] You want 
another? 






Blanchette 65 

Mme. Rousset. [Interposing] Rousset! 

Blanchette. [Braving him] You can beat 
as much as you like. You can kill me. I 
don't care! I'll not give in to you. 

Rousset. Say that again. 

Blanchette. You are hurting me — with 
your big hands. 

Mme. Rousset. [Trying to separate them] 
Blanchette! Be quiet! Do you hear me! 
Rousset, stop that now. 

Blanchette. No, I'll not be quiet. You 
haven't the right to beat me. We shall see. 
I'll put in a complaint. The law will not per- 
mit you to beat me. 

Mme. Rousset. [Exasperated] Will you be 
quiet ! 

Blanchette. No! 

Mme. Rousset. Will you be quiet! 

Blanchette. No! 

Mme. Rousset. [Furious] You shall obey 
me, you little devil! Or — 

Blanchette. [Crying out with pain] You 
are hurting me. 

Rousset. Ah, let her alone! I'll go take a 
bit of a walk. 

Mme. Rousset, Yes, that's best. [She 
pushes her roughly away] I don*t know what 
I'll do to her. [Rousset leaves] 

Mme. Rousset. You see; you've put your 



66 Brieux 

father into a rage. He'll go and drink now 
and come back worse than ever. 

Blanchette. You might as well kill me 
right away. Then you'll be rid of me. 

Mme. Rousset. You are nothing but a 
fool! 

Blanchette. Thank you! 

Mme. Rousset. A fool! In spite of all 
your learning. 

Blanchette. Go on. 

Mme. Rousset. You'll never be any good. 

Blanchette. That's still nicer! 

Mme. Rousset. But I tell you that this 
will not go on, and as long as you are here 
you'll obey. Do you hear! [She goes out left] 

Blanchette. [Alone] If only some one 
would come and take me away from this hell! 
I should like to leave here, go to the city, and 
do anything. I'd be better off anywhere than 
here where my parents detest me, and to whom 
I am less than a stranger. 

[Lucie and her father enter] 

Lucie. How do you do, Elise? 

Blanchette. Oh, it's you! How glad I am 
to see you! 

Galoux. Good morning — 

Blanchette. Oh, good morning, Monsieur 
Galoux. What good wind brings you here? 
[To Lucie] You are well? 



Blanchette 67 

Lucie. You look as if y m had been weep- 
ing! 

Blanchette. It's nothing. You are very- 
kind to bring Lucie to see me. Although my 
parents are very good I get terribly bored 
waiting. 

Galoux. I bring you news about your position. 

Blanchette. Good news? 

Galoux. Yes, my dear. There were two 
thousand candidates ahead of you, I have used 
all my influence, and now — 

Blanchette. Yes? 

Galoux. Now you are only the five hundred 
and fourteenth. 

Blanchette. That means — I'll have to 
wait how long? 

Galoux. Perhaps six months, perhaps a 
year. 

Blanchette. Listen, Monsieur Galoux. I 
do not want to do a lot of begging, but I'll tell 
you this: if I have to wait even six weeks, 
much less six months, or a year, there's no use 
in bothering about me any longer. 

Galoux. Why is that? 

Blanchette. Because I shall be dead by 
that time. 

Galoux. Girls at your age speak a lot 
about death, but that's as far as they ever get. 

Blanchette. I'm not a girl like the others. 



68 Brieux 

I cannot tell you everything, Monsieur Galoux, 
so you will have to imagine the rest. Although 
my parents are very good, I repeat that I suffer 
a great deal here, a great deal. And my 
parents feel badly to see that I am idle. We 
get, excited, become unjust toward one another, 
and a time comes when life is no longer bearable 
together. * We are now at that stage. 

Galoux. I see! I see! But do not get 
discouraged. I can see nothing — unless — 

Lucie. Unless — 

Galoux. Heavens, it's hard to state it. 
Would you consent to be a companion to a 
young girl of your age who is preparing for the 
examinations which you have just passed? 

Blanchette. With all my heart. 

Galoux. Even if the girl in question were 
Lucie? 

Lucie. [Embracing him] Oh, papa, how 
good you are! 

Blanchette. But that would be paradise. 

Galoux. You would be paid — 

Blanchette. Let's not talk of that — my 
board and lodging would be all that I asked. 

Galoux. Well, we'll see. 

Lucie. What joy! 

Blanchette. How wonderful! 

Galoux. One thing more. I ask three 
days' patience of you, my dear — three days is 



Blanchette 69 

not too much. During that time I will go to 
the prefect once more, and if I am not success- 
ful, all you have to do is ask your father 
whether our arrangements are satisfactory. If 
they are, I'll come to speak to him, and the 
thing will be settled. But don't speak to any 
one about this. 

Blanchette. I promise not to. 

Galoux. Now let us speak of something else. 
Tomorrow Monsieur de Hautfort is giving a hunt. 
We are not going to be in it, but we are going to 
be spectators. 

Lucie. There is room for one more in our 
carriage. 

Blanchette. How good of you! But I have 
nothing to wear. 

Lucie. You can come anyway. 

Galoux. We will be four: George, Lucie, you 
and I — I counted on seeing your parents so 
that I could ask them. 

Blanchette. Mamma will be back very 
soon. Is a hunt nice? 

Lucie. Yes, very nice. And then there will 
be a lot of style. 

Blanchette. But don't you think it's aw- 
fully barbarous? The poor beast that is hunted 
all day. 

Lucie. But it is one of the finest pleasures 
there is. 



70 Brieux 

Blanchette. I know that; but it seems to 
me that the women should form some sort of a 
league of pity in order to stop the men from 
being so cruel. I ask your pardon, sir. 

Galoux. I agree with you. Animals larger 
than a hare should not be hunted. 

Blanchette. I know that these hunts allow 
luxurious showings, and give men a good 
chance to show their courage, but it's all noth- 
ing but vanity. Don't you think so, Mon- 
sieur Galoux? 

Galoux. Absolutely. 

Blanchette. If one could describe the moral 
sufferings of one of those hunted stags it would 
make the world weep. 

Galoux. But has the stag any moral sufferings? 

Blanchette. I believe so. In any case, if 
I were a lord — [Rousset and Bonenfant enter] 

Rousset. Tell me, Blanchette, is it true that 
you refused to give this man something to drink? 
How do you do, Monsieur Galoux, and you, 
Mademoiselle Galoux? Answer me. Is it true 
that you refused to give this man something 
to drink? 

Blanchette. I don't remember. 

Rousset. We'll have to clear up this little 
matter. [Goes to the door at left] Hey! wife, 
come here. [Mme. Rousset enters] You are a 
witness, Monsieur Galoux. Here is Bonenfant, 



Blanchette 71 

the roadmender, both a friend and client of 
mine. I've been wondering for quite some 
time now why I haven't been seeing my old 
friend Bonenfant. And just a little while ago, 
as I was going by the other tavern, you know 
the one which has the tobacco shop, I met 
Bonenfant coming out. Says I to him: "I 
notice that you do not trade with us any 
more." "No," says he, "but now all you re- 
ceive are great people." Then he explained 
to me how one day when he came, and neither 
my wife nor I were at home, he couldn't get 
any one to wait on him. And I want to know 
now whether that is true. 

Bonenfant. Ycur daughter told me that 
she did not know. But Mademoiselle Galoux 
can tell you — she was there. 

Blanchette. [After a moment 9 s embarrass- 
ment] I won't lie; it's true. 
. Bonenfant. Ah, so you see! 

Rousset. [Furious] Well now! You are now 
going to apologize to this man whom you have 
insulted, and hurt. You are going to beg him 
to pardon your pride. He's a roadmender, 
that's true, but he is a friend of your father, 
and ytfu must respect him. Ah, so you were 
afraid of soiling your hands by giving a good 
man a cup of coffee! If I was able to send you 
to school until you were twenty years old and 



72 Brieux 

give you that instruction of which you are now 
so proud, it was because neither your mother nor 
I were ever ashamed of the work which you 
now blush to do. [He takes an apron from the 
table] You are going to put on this apron. 
Not a word now, or I'll give you a slap in 
front of everybody here! [He puts the apron 
on her] You are going to beg the roadmender's 
pardon, and you are going to give him a cup of 
coffee. 

Blanchette. [Going to the roadmender] Mon- 
sieur, I beg your pardon. [She weeps] 

Bonenfant. There's no sense in weeping 
about that, Blanchette, I'm not angry with you. 

Rousset. Yes, yes. That's all right. Serve 
him now. 

Mme. Rousset. Come now! That's enough. 
I'll serve him myself. 

Rousset. Be calm now, mother! [To 
Blanchette] And you, obey! 

[Still weeping she places a cup in front of the 
roadmender] 

Lucie. [Simply] I'll help you. [She brings 
the sugar bowl. Blanchette pours the coffee] 

Galoux. If Mademoiselle Elise was in the 
wrong, pere Rousset, she has now completely 
atoned for it, and it seems that you in turn — 

Rousset. I beg your pardon, Monsieur Ga- 
loux, but I do as my head tells me — and, you 



Blanchette 73 

know, a pauper is master in his own house. 

Galoux. Very well. But I came to ask 
you to let your daughter spend the day to- 
morrow with Lucie. 

Rousset. Yes, yes, but I don't kndw about 
tomorrow. You are very kind. We'll see. 

Galoux. As you wish. Good day, pere 
Rousset. Good day, Mademoiselle. Look, pere 
Rousset, how the poor girl is weeping. 

Rousset. I see, I see. But if you think 
that those carryings on move me you are very 
much mistaken. Good day, Monsieur Galoux. 
Good day, Mademoiselle Galoux. [Lucie em- 
braces Blanchette silently and leaves with her 
father. Bonenfant has been silently drinking his 
coffee] 

Bonenfant. Ah now! That's what I call a 
good cup of coffee. 

Rousset. I'll not take anything for it. It's 
my treat. 

Bonenfant. Well, then! The coffee is even 
better than I thought. I'll see you again. 

Rousset. And now you'll not be going to 
my competitor's any more, hein? 

Bonenfant. No, I'll not do that. 

Rousset. Good-bye. [He goes] [To Blanch- 
ette] Did Monsieur Galoux bring you your 
teacher's nomination? 

Blanchette. No. It means still waiting. 



74 Brieux 

Rousset. Always the same. But what was 
he doing here? 

Blanchette. He came to invite me for to- 
morrow. 

Rousset. Tomorrow you can't possibly go. 
You have other things to do tomorrow. 

Blanchette. What? 

Rousset. The last two weeks' accounts. 

Blanchette. I'll finish them tonight before 
retiring. 

Rousset. You had better not work at night. 

Blanchette. But I promised them. They 
expect me. 

Rousset. Well, let them expect. 

Blanchette. I beg you. As long as the 
accounts will be ready — 

Rousset. But w^hy do you always like to be 
with those people so much? Do you perhaps 
prefer them to your parents? 

Blanchette. I am very fond of Lucie. 

Rousset. Go and ask her to help you along. 

Blanchette. If I needed help she would 
give it to me. 

Rousset. You really believe that! 

Blanchette. I am sure of it. 

Rousset. Very well. But you'll not go. 
Besides, from tomorrow on, life is going to be 
different for you here. This has lasted much 
too long already. 



Blanchette 75 

Mme. Rousset. Just a little more patience, 
father. 

Rousset. I have already had too much 
patience. They laughed at me. They prom- 
ised us that she would earn something as soon 
as she had her degree, and we worked like dogs 
so that she could get it. But her nomination 
is not forthcoming. [To Blanchette] I'm not 
rich enough to let you keep living here without 
doing anything. And if you were only satisfied 
in not doing anything. But then you go and 
make a mess of things. With the inventions in 
your books you make me lose both my wheat 
and the price of the chemicals, which I was fool 
enough to use. Then you go and buy a lamp 
as high as a church steeple and which isn't worth 
anything, and because I am not wrapped in 
amazement you go and break it on purpose. 
One can see that you never had to earn any 
money. And that's not all. Then you try to 
stop me from making a living choosing our 
customers and you take the interest of strangers 
against your parents. Ah, they never brought 
me up like that. I was put to work when I 
was ten years old. I was not as smart as you, 
that's true enough, and I didn't laugh at my 
father when he guarded himself against light- 
ning by methods that some good people had taught 
him — that's true, too — but at least I was good 



76 Brieux 

for something. From tomorrow on you are go- 
ing to earn your daily bread or you get none to eat. 

Blanchette. How? 

Rousset. You will get up at five o'clock 
and come down here and wash the floor. 

Mme. Rousset. But what will I do then? 

Rousset. You, wife, you will stay in bed. 
[To Blanchette] After that, you will stay here, 
and when the workingmen come before they go 
to the factory, or those that come from their 
night duty, you'll serve them. 

Mme. Rousset. Come now, Rousset, there's 
no place for a young girl among the working- 
men who come here to drink. 

Rousset. It's not the place for a young 
girl, isn't it? You used to do it. Did that 
stop me from marrying you? But to con- 
tinue [To Blanchette] Then yau'U wash the 
dishes. After supper you'll darn your stockings, 
because I forbid you to read. 

Mme. Rousset. Listen to me, Rousset. 

Rousset. What am I asking her to do that 
she shouldn't do? I'm simply telling her to do 
the things that a tavern keeper's daughter 
should' do. And isn't she that kind of a girl? 
Besides, there's no use in arguing, because she'll 
do as I tell her, or she'll get out. 

Mme. Rousset. But I don't want her to. 

Rousset. What did you say? Who has the 



Blanchette 77 

right to say "I want" in this house? Ah, 
what's got into the women of today! I don't 
like these kind of carryings on. I am the 
master, do you hear, the master, and you must 
obey me. 

Mme. Rousset. Obey you! 

Rotjsset. And you be quiet too, do you 
hear? And both of you be calm, or look out for 
yourselves! 

Mme. Rousset. I wouldn't be surprised if 
you'd strike me. It wouldn't be the first time. 

Rousset. [Striking the table with his fist] I've 
had enough now! [To Blanchette] You'll do 
what I tell you, or you'll get out. 

Blanchette. Very well, I'll go. 

Rousset. All right, good night. You'll prob- 
ably find more to eat somewhere else. 

Blanchette. Haven't you reproached me 
enough about the food I eat here? But never 
mind: you'll reproach me no longer! 

Rousset. I advise you to put in a complaint. 

Blanchette. Oh, yes, I'll put in a com- 
plaint, and I'll have a good right to do it. 
Didn't you torture me enough just today? For 
your birthday I bought you this lamp, hoping 
to please you. You maliciously deform it. 
Yes, I know that is nothing, but every day a 
little incident like that only goes to prove that 
we cannot live together. Everything that I 



78 Brieux 

think is pretty you think is ugly. All that 
seems evil to me appears good in your eyes. 
You and I will never understand each other. 
We have become strangers. You have become 
stubborn in your routine work and I cannot 
even comprehend your moral code. Then I 
flattered your vanity and you showed me off 
as you would a trained dog. Now that's not 
enough for you. My pride hurts you, and you 
try on every occasion to humiliate me. You 
made me beg that roadmender's pardon be- 
cause Lucie was here, and when Monsieur Ga- 
loux attempted to interpose you gave me one 
more mean thrust by using some vile words. 
All you know now is to find some new way to hurt 
me. What I am telling you is true: we have 
become strangers for one another. And it's best 
for every one that I should go, and I am going. 
I am going, I am going, I am going! 

Rousset. Now you've said it just four times. 

Blanchette. Do you want me to go 
immediately? 

Rousset. I had just as leave that you did. 
You have pride, but you also have a lot of 
laziness in you. Here, you get nourishment 
without doing anything, which means that you 
will stay here. 

Blanchette. Come now! You want me to! 
[Goes left] 



Blanchette 79 

Rousset. Where is she going? 

Mmb. Rousset. She's probably gone to get 
her coat. Will you let her go? 

Rousset. You really believe she's in earnest? 
Why it's all play acting, it's all comedy. 

Mme. Rousset. But if — 

Rousset. Ah, if she absolutely wants to 
go, I am not here to stop her. [Blanchette 
comes in, wearing her coat and hat] 

Blanchette. Good-bye. 

Rousset. Then you're serious? 

Blanchette. Very. [To her mother] Good- 
bye, mamma. [She goes to embrace her] 

Mme. Rousset. Come now, Blanchette, 
don't be silly. Go and embrace your father 
and the matter will be closed. 

Blanchette. It's useless. It'd be all the 
same tomorrow again. 

Mme. Rousset. [Becoming angry] Now listen 
to your mother. Go to him. 

Blanchette. No — 

Mme. Rousset. [Angry] What a stubborn 
child! Will you do as I tell you? 

Blanchette. No — Listen, mamma, I am 
sorry to leave you, but you cannot stop me — 
and besides, you do not know how to love 
me. 

Mme. Rousset [Becoming still more angry] 
You'll not obey me? 



80 Brieux 

Blanchette. No. It's useless. My mind 
is made up. 

Mme. Rousset [Furious] Very well! You 
can go to the devil! I was a fool to bother 
with you. 

Blanchette. Let me embrace you. 

Mme. Rousset. No. Not if you are going 
to leave me. 

Rousset. Is this nonsense soon going to beover? 

Blanchette. Yes. Good-bye. 

Rousset. Wait a bit! Just listen a moment 
what I have to say to you. If you step over 
that threshold you'll never come back over 
it as long as I am alive. You can be up to 
your neck in poverty and misery but there'll 
nob even be the bit of bread that one gives 
to beggars here for you. You understand 
perfectly what I am telling you? 

Blanchette. You can be at your ease. I 
would rather die than ask for help from you. 
Good-bye. 

Rousset. Good night. [She leaves] 

Mme. Rousset. [Rushes to the door with a 
cry] Blanchette, my daughter! Blanchette! 

Rousset [Holding her by the wrist] You stay 
here, mother — I don't know that person who 
just left here any more. [A pause] Now go 
and get supper ready. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT III. 

[The scene is the same as before. The pictures 
of Carnot and General Boulanger have been re- 
placed by those of the Tsar and Felix Faure. 
November] 

[Mme. Rousset is seated at the left. Rousset 
is at a table near the window. Both of them are 
resting their heads on their elbows and seem to be 
reflecting on something] 

Rousset [After a long pause, without moving] 
I'm going to see how my beets are getting along. 

Mme. Rousset. That's right. [Another pause] 

Rousset. It's nine o'clock, and there goes 
the postman. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, it's nine o'clock. 

Rousset. Why it looks as if he were coming 
in here. 

Mme. Rousset [Quickly rising] Perhaps he 
has a letter for us. 

Rousset. For us. [In a hard voice] Who 
would write to us? 

Mme. Rousset. But — 

Rousset. We've paid our taxes, and this isn't 
election time. 

Mme. Rousset. But he's really coming 
here — 

Rousset. Ah — 

81 



82 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. Oh, Lord ! If it were — 

Rousset. Be quiejj^ [The postman enters] 

The Postman. Good morning to you. 
It's not often that I have to come here. [He 
looks in his bag] Here — it's a letter for your 
daughter. [Reading the envelope] Mademoiselle 
Elise Rousset. Has she come back? 

Rousset. No — but you can leave the 
letter here; we'll forward it. 

The Postman. Give me her address. Thus 
you'll save three sous. 

Rousset. Never mind. We have a reason. 

The Postman. She still has her position? 

Rousset. Yes. 

The Postman. Always happy? 

Rousset. Always. 

The Postman. Isn't she coming back soon? 

Rousset. No. 

The Postman. Is she very far from here? 

Rousset. Yes, very far. 

The Postman. Well, good day — 

Rousset. Good-bye, Monsieur Caillard. 

Mme. Rousset. Au revoir. [He leaves] 

Rousset. [After a pause goes to the door] 
I'm going to see my beets. [When he is on 
the point of going out he hesitates, looks at Mme. 
Rousset, who is still holding the letter betweeu 
her fingers, with an air of indifference] Where's 
the letter from? 



Blanchette 83 

Mme. Rousset. It says on the envelope, 
The Agricultor s Bookshop. 

Rousset. Ah, yes — that's where she 
bought her books on fertilizers. 

Mme. Rousset. When I think that she has 
not written once in over a year! 

Rousset. It's better that way. 

Mme. Rousset. What makes me feel so 
badly is when people ask for news of her. 

Rousset. All you have to say is yes — no 
— just like I do. 

Mme. Rousset. And when I have to say 
that she is well when perhaps she is dead. 

Rousset. You have to invent something — 

Mme. Rousset. But every one knows the 
truth around here. 

Rousset. Every one! Only pere Bonenfant 
and the Morillons. And if they know^ it 
wasn't us that told 'em. 

Mme. Rousset. They guessed it. 

Rousset. It's perfectly possible that they 
know — in fact, I know that they know. Only, 
since I have never let them perceive that I 
know, they have to pretend that they don't 
know. I prefer to have it that way. And 
now that's enough. I'm going to see my 
beets. [He leaves] 

[A moment later Bonenfant enters] 

Bonenfant. How do, mere Rousset? 



84 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. Good morning, Bonenfant. 
Will you have some coffee? 

Bonenfant. No thanks, not now. [He looks 
at her smilingly] Ha, ha. 

Mme. Rousset. You're happy this morning. 

Bonenfant. Happy as a young girl. And 
have you had any news from Blanchette? 

Mme. Rousset. Yes, from time to time. 

Bonenfant. That's nice. I too, I've had 
news from her. 

Mme. Rousset. Honestly? Tell me, tell me, 
please! — 

Bonenfant. But it's probably the same 
that you've had. [M me. Rousset hurriedly gets 
a glass, which she fills and places in front of 
Bonenfant] 

Mme. Rousset. You know very well that 
Rousset is not telling the truth. You know 
very well that we do not know where she is, 
that we don't even know whether she is still 
living. 

Bonenfant Oh, she's still living — 

Mme. Rousset. And in good health? — 

Bonenfant. Yes. 

Mme. Rousset. [Sighs] That's all I care 
about. Well drink, Bonenfant. 

Bonenfant. What would you say if you 
saw her back here one of these days? 

Mme. Rousset. What I would say — what 



Blanchette 85 

I would say? — I don't know, but I'd be very 
happy. But it's not possible. 

Bonenfant. With railroads people come and 
go from day to day. 

Mme. Rousset. You think that she'll come 
back? 

Bonenfant. I've heard of stranger things. 

Mme. Rousset. You think that — 

Bonenfant. I won't say yes, and I won't 
say no. But I've been told that it's very 
probable. 

Mme. Rousset. Who told you so? 

Bonenfant. Why, I had a letter 

Mme. Rousset. From whom? 

Bonenfant. Oh, from a friend of mine. 
[He laughs] 

Mme. Rousset. I know very well who 
wrote you this letter. 

Bonenfant. No one but myself knows any- 
thing about it. 

Mme. Rousset. You've seen Blanchette? 

Bonenfant. I? That's good. You think 
that I've just seen Blanchette. 

Mme. Rousset. Yes. You do not know 
how to read; so in order to know what is in 
the letter you must have shown it to some 
one, and since you yourself say that no one 
knows about it but yourself, it simply shows 



86 Brieux 

that there never was a letter and that you 
must have seen Blanchette. 

Bonenfant. Ah, how these women blab! 

Mme. Rousset. Tell me, am I right? 

Bonenfant. Let me drink my coffee first. 
[While he is drinking he watches her from the 
corner of his eye] 

Mme. Rousset. Well? 

Bonenfant. Wait until I have finished. 
[He rises and looks out of the window] 

Mme. Rousset. She is there? 

Bonenfant. Now pere Rousset has gone 
behind the grove, and there's no more danger. 
[He goes to the door] 

Mme. Rousset. She is there! 

Bonenfant. Don't budge! If you move 
you'll not see her. [Blanchette appears on the 
threshold. She is very thin and poorly dressed. 
Mme. Rousset cannot move from astonishment. 
Bonenfant goes out, closing the door behind him] 

Blanchette. [Simply] Mamma, I ask your 
forgiveness. 

Mme. Rousset. [Without hearing her, and 
still motionless] Is it possible! Is it possible! 

Blanchette. [Advancing] Mamma, I ask 
your forgiveness. 

Mme. Rousset. She is here — but — 

Blanchette. [Throwing herself into her 
mother's arms] Mamma. 



Blanchette 87 

Mme. Rousset. Blanchette — [She is choked 
with tears, and covers Blanchette with kisses] Is 
it possible! Is it possible! She is back again! 
She is back again. [Bonenfant opens the door] 

Mme. Rousset. [Frightened] My God! 
Your father is here! [Bonenfant appears smil- 
ing] No! it's only that fool of a roadmender. 
[Bonenfant bows and goes out again] How 
frightened I was! 

Blanchette. He'll not forgive me, he — 

Mme. Rousset. [Evadingly] Why yes — 

Blanchette. You certainly ought to know. 

Mme. Rousset. But how should I? 

Blanchette. When you spoke of me he 
used to say hard things, didn't he? 

Mme. Rousset. No. Only it will be better 
if he does not find you here until I have 
prepared him. 

Blanchette. I think that you are right. 
• That is why I sent Bonenfant ahead. 

Bonenfant. [Outside the window] I'm watch- 
ing for him. From here I can see him come 
out of the grove. 

Mme. Rousset. You can go up stairs and 
wait. I'll call you then. 

Blanchette. Yes, mother. If he only does 
not send me away! 

Mme. Rousset. He'll not do that. 

Blanchette. If he sent me away it would 



88 Brieux 

be terrible, for you see mamma I was at the 
end of my rope. 

Mme. Rousset. My poor Blanchette! What 
have you done since you left home? 

Blanchette. It would be too long and 
sad to tell you all at once. But I'll tell you 
all, little by little. 

Mme. Rousset. You must be hungry, poor 
dear! 

Blanchette. [Smiling] I am. 

Mme. Rousset. And to think that I — 
[She brings her some bread and a knife] 

Blanchette. Thank you. What good 
bread. Does Denis still bring it. 

Mme. Rousset. Don't eat your bread dry. 
[She brings her some cheese] Yes, it's still 
Denis. He has a new wagon. 

Blanchette. Ah! And I'm sure he is 
proud of it. 

Mme. Rousset. No one's too good for him. 

Blanchette. And pot cheese! The kind 
that father makes himself. 

Mme. Rousset. You remember! 

Blanchette. And no one else but himself 
is allowed to touch it. 

Mme. Rousset. That's right. He hasn't 
changed at all, you know. 

Blanchett'e. I was hungry, and now I 
cannot eat any more; I am so happy. [Look- 



Blanchette 89 

ing at her mother] Mother! How much sad- 
ness I have already brought into your life, 
and how good you are to be willing to forget 
it all — 

Mme. Rousset. But eat, eat — you should 
have had some bouillon — and a glass of cider! 

— I don't think of anything. We have some 
good cider. We made six kegs this year. 
Taste it. It is good. 

Blanchette. Very good. 

Mme. Rousset. The Morillons wanted us 
to give them some. 

Blanchette. The Morillons. They are still 
as happy as ever? 

Mme. Rousset. Yes. 

Bonenfant. [Through the window] Here he 
comes. 

Mme. Rousset. Oh, Lord ! Go — go quickly 

— I'll call you. Take this with you ! You 
haven't eaten anything. But yes — go — 
[She hurries her to the door and then quickly 
sweeps the table. Rousset enters] 

Mme. Rousset. Well, did you see your 
beets? 

Rousset. Yes. 

Mme. Rousset. Are they good? 

Rousset. The man who buys them will 
say they don't weigh anything. Have you 
seen anybody this morning? 



90 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. No one. 

Rousset. Ah! 

Mme. Rousset. Why do you say "ah." 

Rousset. Because — because some one told 
me that they saw a stranger from the distance. 

Mme. Rousset. I haven't seen any one. 

Rousset. [Pointing to Bonenf ant's glass] Then 
you have been drinking alone, eh? 

Mme. Rousset. Oh! I remember now: 
pere Bonenfant was here. 

Rousset. You see. 

Mme. Rousset. But pere Bonenfant is no 
one. 

Rousset. But that's just it, for it was with 
pere Bonenfant that the stranger was seen. 

Mme. Rousset. Perhaps — 

Rousset. Perhaps what? 

Mme. Rousset. I don't know — 

Rousset. All right. Give me a bite to 
eat. [During the following, Mme. Rousset puts 
a whole loaf of bread on the table, as well as 
some cheese and a glass of cider. Rousset puts 
on his glasses] What did you do with that 
letter? 

Mme. Rousset. What letter? Ah, yes! 
[Pointing to the counter] There it is. 

Rousset. What's in it? 

Mme. Rousset. I don't know. 

Rousset. [Taking the letter] You didn't look 



Blanchette 91 

at it. — You're not very curious — or perhaps 
you didn't have the time. [He opens it and 
reads the following] "We beg you to kindly 
remit at your very earliest opportunity the 
money you owe us from the books that were 
sent to you almost two years ago. We have 
called your attention to this matter several 
times. The books in question are: — On In- 
tensive Agriculture — On the Use of Agricul- 
tural Machinery — A Treatise on Political 
Economy — The Fortune Made by the Use of 
Chemical Fertilizers — The Product of the Soil.'' 

Mme. Rousset. Those are some books that 
she bought. 

Rousset. Yes, yes, I remember. 

Mme. Rousset. It was for us that she 
bought them. 

Rousset. For us! Did you read them? 
Did I read them? 

Mme. Rousset. For our benefit, I meant to 
say. 

Rousset. Yes, to spoil things! Our benefit? 
To spoil things, there's no other way to put it. 

Mme. Rousset. She meant to do good. 

Rousset. She meant to do good too, I 
suppose, when she broke the lamp on purpose. 
It was the very same day. It was the day 
she left ! [Looking at the bill] How much ! How 
much! How much do you make it? 



92 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. [ Timidly] Thirty - two 
francs — 

Rousset. Thirty-two francs! Ah, but that's 
going too far! 

Mme. Rousset. I'll go and see — they may 
make a reduction. They may have made a 
mistake. 

Rousset. You'll go and see nothing! It's 
not us that ordered them — them — them — 
devil's things. Eh? So we don't owe any- 
thing. Let them go and get it from her! 
She must have earned enough in her Paris. 
And besides, but that's enough! [He sits 
down to eat. He takes a knife out of his pocket, 
opens it, and wipes it on his trousers. He sees 
the whole loaf of bread] Why cut into a fresh loaf? 

Mme. Rousset. But — 

Rousset. There was some left. 

Mme. Rousset. I assure you — 

Rousset. But I'm positive. It's not on 
account of the bit of bread, but I am sure that 
there was some left. 

Mme. Rousset. You are right — there was 
a small piece left. 

Rousset. You see. Well, bring it to me. 
There's no use in throwing it away. 

Mme. Rousset. Why, you see — 

Rousset. What? 

Mme. Rousset. I remember now, I gave 



Blanchette 93 

it to a road-maker — he was a poor fellow. 

Rousset. That's all right, that's all right. 

Mme. Rousset. It was only a very small 
piece. 

Rousset. And you also gave your road- 
maker some cheese? 

Mme. Rousset. He had a little child with 
him. 

Rousset. You seem to be very charitable 
today. [He drinks. While Mme. Rousset has her 
back turned he picks up a small comb from the 
floor, which Blanchette has lost. He gazes at it 
and then puts it in his pocket] What did Bonen- 
fant have to say for himself? 

Mme. Rousset. Nothing. 

Rousset. Nothing! He told you some- 
thing just the same. 

Mme. .Rousset. I don't remember any more. 

Rousset. You haven't much of a memory. 

Mme. Rousset. Who? I? 

Rousset. Oh, no. I was talking about the 
curate. Now tell me, mother. 

Mme. Rousset. What? 

Rousset. Since they have written here it 
must be that they thought that she had re- 
turned, eh? 

Mme. Rousset. I don't know — 

Rousset. Or that she has an idea of 
returning. 



94 Brieux 

Mme. Rousset. You're always looking for 
underhand dealings! You'd better go read 
your paper. 

Rousset. Then you don't remember. [All 
of a sudden] Some one just was walking 
upstairs. Didn't you hear it? 

Mme. Rousset. No — 

Rousset. I assure you that some one was 
walking. There is somebody here. 

Mme. Rousset. You're crazy — or you've 
had too much to drink. That's it, you've had 
too much to drink. I heard absolutely nothing. 

Rousset. [Taking up his stick] All right. 
But I'll go up and see. And thieves had 
better beware! 

Mme. Rousset. No! — I do not want you 
to! — 

Rousset. Ah! Ah! — It's that wretch of a 
daughter of yours who is up there. You don't 
think I guessed it? 

Mme. Rousset. No, it's not she. 

Rousset. Then your daughter has not re- 
turned? 

Mme. Rousset. No. 

Rousset. Well then, let me go up. 

Mme. Rousset. I don't want you to. I 
guess you can believe me when I tell you 
something. I've just come down, and there's 
no one up there. 



Blanchette 95 

Rousset. Then your daughter is not here? 

Mme. Rousset. No. 

Rousset. Then your daughter is not here? 

Mme. Rousset. No. 

Rousset. Well then, to whom does this 
comb belong that I have just found? It cer- 
tainly is not yours. You are sure that your 
daughter is not here? 

Mme. Rousset. I am quite sure. 

Rousset. Listen, listen — now do you hear 
some one walking? Now — they are coming 
down the stairs. Liar that you are! 

Mme. Rousset. Oh, heavens! 

Rousset. Do you hear. She is here, I 
say, she is here. Ha, there she is. [Blanchette 
appears] 

Blanchette. Yes, it is I. Now do what 
you want with me. 

Rousset. [In a hard voice] Get out of here, 
-do you understand! 

Blanchette. Father, are you really going 
to send me away? 

Rousset. Yes. 

Blanchette. You ought to have pity on 
me. Ah, yes, you ought to have pity on me. 

Rousset. No nonsense now! What did I 
tell you when you said that you were going? 

Blanchette. If I came back it was only 
because I could not stand it any longer. 



96 Brieux 

Rousset. You haven't much courage! 

Blanchette. If that were true I would have 
suffered less. 

Rousset. No, it's true, you haven't much 
courage. After what you told me when you 
were leaving I would have rather drowned myself 
than come back here; especially after what I 
said to you — hard as it was for me to do so. 
When one has courage one does not starve. 

Blanchette. That's what I thought w^hen 
I left. 

Rousset. Well? 

Blanchette. Well, it is not so. 

Rousset. There's no end of work to be 
had in Paris. 

Blanchette. Nor workmen either. 

Rousset. You were afraid of spoiling your 
dainty fingers doing sewing, I suppose! 

Blanchette. No, not that! But no one 
wanted me. 

Rousset. Nonsense ! 

Blanchette. I knew how to embroider but 
I could not sew. However I sewed beads on 
lace and earned twenty sous, working twelve 
hours. 

Rousset. One can live on that. 

Blanchette. But there is the dull season. 

Rousset. All that is none of my affairs. 
What did I tell when you left? What did I 



Blanehette 97 

say? I don't know you any more. Now get 
out. 

Mme. Rousset. Rousset, I implore you, 
Rousset ! 

Rousset. Come, come! Do you want to 
break my ears? I warned her of all this. 

Blanchette. Then you are going to send 
me away? 

Rousset. How many times do you want 
me to tell you so? 

Blanchette. You want to send me away 
without knowing whether I may not die of 
starvation on your doorstep? 

Rousset. Go back from where you came 
from. You have existed up to now, haven't 
you? Well, go back and do again what you 
were doing. 

Blanchette. But lately I haven't even had 
enough to eat. If you only knew what it 
,was for a woman to work in Paris! There are 
ten applicants for a day's work, and in this 
way one stops the other from earning a living 
without being able to live one's self. If you 
only knew how one is on the track of hand 
written billboards which advertise for unskilled 
workmen. And if you realized how one is 
exploited! There are people who simply wait 
until you have fallen to the very poorest 
state and then propose the most abominable 



98 Brieux 

things to you; and they laugh at you when 
you refuse, and say to you: "If you hf» J 
rather starve in the gutter that is your affair." 
I have seen all that, I have gone through all 
that. In the end I understood that it was 
impossible, and I have returned because com- 
ing back to you was the only decent and 
courageous thing left for me to do. No, I 
do not want to begin it all over again. I could 
not if I wanted to. [She kneels] Father, I 
ask your forgiveness! I promise that you will 
never have any reason to find fault with me 
again. I promise never to be proud again and 
always to obey you. Father, I ask your for- 
giveness. Don't throw me back on to the 
street, ' I implore you. I cannot earn my 
daily bread, so what could I do if you sent 
me away? 

Rousset. You can go to Monsieur Galoux. 
He promised to engage you to give your 
friend Lucie lessons, your great friend — 

Blanchette. Monsieur Galoux kept his 
promise. 

Rousset. And you did not stay there? 

Blanchette. No. 

Rousset. But that was the place for you. 
You did not have to soil your hands, and 
that must have pleased you. I suppose you 



Blanchette 99 

went -and did something foolish and they made 
you get out. 

Blanchette. No, I did nothing wrong. 

Rousset. If you did nothing wrong they 
could not have sent you away. 

Blanchette. You believe that? 

Rocsset. Of course! 

Blanchette. I had hardly entered Monsieur 
Galoux's services when his son, Monsieur 
George, wanted to make me his mistress. 
Then he spoke to me of marriage. It was then 
that they sent me away. Oh, they paid me 
a lot of compliments, but they gave me to 
understand that virtue and instruction could 
not take the place of a dowry, and they offered 
me a sum of money which I refused. 

Rottsset. Ah! Always these ideas of 
grandeur. 

Blanchette. How I wept and suffered from 
shame! But listen. From the Galoux's I went 
into another place, but I had to leave there 
also. In that place it was the mother who 
sent me away, — yes, the mother, — because 
in taking a companion for her daughter, she 
meant, at the same time, to hav^ a teacher 
free from dangers. And after that". 13 — a very 
respectable old gentleman had lost h. daughter 
of just my age and whom he said I resembled. 
He wanted me to fill her place. Ah, that 



100 Brieux 

ignoble man! When I left, he shrugged his 
shoulders: my frankness made him pity me. 
That poor, inconsolable father! In another 
house it was the husband — 

Rousset. You should have found a position 
with a single woman. 

Blanchette. That is just what I did, I 
was all right there, and I scrubbed the floor 
as you asked me to do. But I got nothing to 
eat. After all, I almost regret now that I 
did not imitate other girls I met, who were 
in just my position. They took the primrose 
path. And they are not to be pitied for it; 
no, on the contrary. Yes, yes, I am telling 
you the truth. Instruction does not teach 
virtue. There are enough miserable creatures 
who can roll up their teachers' degrees in their 
prostitute licenses. 

Rousset. Then it is wrong to educate one's 
children? 

Blanchette. No. But one should show them 
how to make use of their education, and not try to 
make government officials of them. 

Rousset. Be quiet, some one is coming. 
[Bonenfant rnters] 

Bonenf^xVT. How do you do one and all. 
[Sitting down] I'd like a cup of coffee. [Pre- 
tending to notice Blanchette for the first time] 
Why, Blanchette! 



Blanchette 101 

Rousset. She dropped in to pay us a little 
visii. 

Bonenfant. Ah! Well, I'll take a cup of 
coffee just the same. [Mme. Rousset is about 
to get the things, but Blanchette stops her] 

Blanchette. [L ooking at her father, who 
himself is watching her from the corner of his 
eye] But — I'll get everything, mamma. Give 
me your apron. [She waits on Bonenfant. Not 
a word is spoken. Rousset watches her with 
surprise , and is a little touched] 

Bonenfant. [After having drunk] Ah ! — 
[He gives Blanchette a coin which she gives to 
her mother. She clears the table. Morillon 
and Auguste enter] 

Morillon. How do you do, pere Rousset. 
[To Blanchette] You back again, Miss 
Blanchette? Ah! — I am very happy to see 
you, very happy — and I am not the only 
one — Eh, Auguste? 

Rousset. Bless my soul! 

Morillon. Well, pere Rousset? 

Rousset. What? 

Morillon. Come with me a bit; I have 
something to tell you. 

Rousset. Oh, I can't. I haven't the time 
now. 

Morillon. It's about the land. 

Rousset. About that David land? 



102 Brieux 

Morillon. Well, come on, come on. [To 
the rest] We'll be back soon. [He drags Rous- 
set out with him. Auguste remains standing. 
He is visibly embarrassed.] 

Blanchette. Won't you sit down? 

Mme. Rousset. [Looks at them. Then she 
says] Excuse me if I leave you alone for a 
few minutes. I'll come back. [She leaves] 

Auguste. They told us that you had re- 
turned, and as my father and I were passing 
by we thought we would drop in and see how 
you were. 

Blanchette. It was very kind of you. 

Augusts. Have you come back now to stay? 

Blanchette. No, I'm going away again. 

Auguste. [Disconcerted] Ah! — ah! you — 

Blanchette. Yes. 

Auguste. You like Paris better? 

Blanchette. Oh, heavens, no! You have no 
idea how I dread Paris. 

Auguste. But — you have ties that bind you 
there ! 

Blanchette. None at all. 

Auguste. I — I've been waiting — one of 
these days — to hear of your marriage. 

Blanchette. With whom, pray tell me? 

Auguste. Oh, I don't know. You are — 
you are — I don't know — nice enough — one 
would have thought — that down there there 



Blanchette 103 

would have been fellows who — I really don't 
know — 

Blanchette. Who wanted me? No, there 
were none — at least those who did were such 
miserable rascals that I kept them away from 
me. 

Auguste. Really — you — then you need 
not return. 

Blanchette. Yes. My father won't have 
me here. 

Auguste. What I wanted to say was that 
no one is waiting for you — you are not — 

Blanchette. There is no one. 

Auguste. I am so glad to hear that. 
Then it's really true? — it's really true that 
you have no friend waiting for you? — and 
you — 

Blanchette. And I never had any — I 
swear it to you. Oh, I was unhappy — so 
unhappy. 

Auguste. And I am so glad! — I don't 
think you can realize just how happy I am. 
And now I have some things to tell you. 

Blanchette. Go on. 

Auguste. We have had to enlarge our 
workshop — for we now have to employ three 
workmen. And during harvest we have had as 
many as five. We are very happy. We make 
ten, twelve, and even fifteen francs a day — 



104 Brieux 

and since you left I have laid four hundred 
francs aside. My father talks of retiring. 
Listen to me, listen to me. We have had 
another story built with a large window — 
and — [Pause] 

Blanchette. Why are you telling me — 

Auguste. [Suddenly] Well! — It's clear 
enough ! — you — I — I want to ask you to 
marry me. 

Blanchette. [Very much moved] Auguste — 

Auguste. Tell me, is it yes or no? I have 
been waiting for you. 

Blanchette. Ah, what a truly good boy 
you are! 

Auguste. Then it's — yes? 

[After a pause Blanchette throws herself into his 
arms] 

Auguste. Then it's yes! Well, you can 
pride yourself on having made some one happy. 
— Good Lord! You'll see whether I'll make a 
good husband or not. You'll see! You'll 
not go back on your word, will you? 
My, but I am a lucky fellow! — [He laughs] But 
now let me kiss you too! 

[Bonenfant enters] 

Bonenfant. Oh, I beg your pardon. [He 
is about to leave] 

Auguste. You're back again, pere Bonenfant? 



Blanchette 105 

Bonenfant. I returned because I forgot to 
have my drink after my coffee. 

Blanchette. [Gay] I'll give you your drink, 
pere Bonenfant, 

Auguste. And a lump of sugar too? 

[Rousset and Morillon enter at rear] 

Bonenfant. I am served like a prince! 

[Auguste is standing next to the table, Blanchette, 
at his side; her hand is on his shoulder, Both of 
them are very happy] 

Blanchette. Is it good? 

Bonenfant. Very good. [He looks at them 
and laughs. Then Auguste laughs, and finally 
Blanchette joins in] 

Bonenfant. I bet you're not going to invite 
me to the wedding! 

Blanchette and Auguste. But of course we 
will! 

Morillon. [Stepping up] That is if I give 
my consent! — and I do that with all my heart. 

[Bonenfant is about to leave when he meets Rousset 
at the door] 

Bonenfant. Well, so Blanchette is going 
again? 

Rousset. We'll see. After one goes to the 
trouble of bringing up children they always 
end by leaving their home for the home of 
another. 

[Mme. Rousset bursts into tears. Blanchette and 



106 Brieux 

Auguste go to her, and Blanchette takes her mother 
in her arms] 

Blanchette. Mother! 

Mme. Rousset. It's because I am so happy ! 

Rousset. And am I a stranger here? 
Won't any one embrace me? 

[Blanchette throws herself into her father's arms] 

CURTAIN 



THE ESCAPE 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Dr. Bertry A Prominent Physician. 

Jean Belmont His Stepson. 

Monsieur Bertry His Brother. 

Lucienne Bertry , . . Monsieur Bertry's Daughter. 

Dr. La Belleuse Dr. Bertry's Secretary. 

Paul de Maucour Lucienne' s Former Fiance. 

Alice de Maucour His Wife. 

Monsieur Longuyon A Friend of the Bertrys. 

Madame Longuyon His Wife. 

Madame de Cattenieres A Friend of the Bertrys. 

Dr. Rich on A Physician from Ebreyille. 

Dr. Morienval A Young Parislan Physician. 

Pere Guernoche A Shepherd from Ebreville. 

Rosalie Maid at the Bertrys. 

Justin Her Husband. 

Segard A Farmer at Ebreville. 

A Man — A Servant — A Farmer 

Time — The Present. Place — Paris and Ebreville. 



THE ESCAPE 

ACT I. 

As the curtain rises Dr. Bertry, a man of 
sixty years, is discovered correcting proof. 

The Doctor. This will have to be printed 
as soon as possible. Xo mistakes! [He re- 
reads aloud] " Dr. Bertry, a member of the 
academy of medicine, professeur lib re of neuro- 
pathology, will again give his lectures at the 
Ecole Pratique beginning on the third of Oc- 
tober." It seems to me that my name and 
title could be set in larger type. I don't know 
that it can be read easily enough as it is. 
[He rises and gives the placard to the servant. 
Then he retires a few steps in order to judge 
the effect] Will you hold it, so that I can see 
it better? That's it! It'll have to be set in 
a little larger type. [He underlines it in blue 
pencil] Don't let them forget that! [He strikes 
a bell] 

The Man. I'll see that it is all right, 
monsieur. [He leaves] 

[Rosalie enters. She is about fifty years old, 
and very sad.] 

Rosalie. Did you ring, doctor? 



110 Brieux 

The Doctor. Yes. Take these notes to 
Mademoiselle Lucienne* and tell her that I 
should like to have them copied. Is there any 
one in the waiting room? 

Rosalie. Dr. La Belleuse is there, monsieur. 

The Doctor. Tell him to come in. 

Rosalie. Haven't you anything to tell me 
about Justin? 

The Doctor. My poor Rosalie, I have 
begged you to have courage. There is no hope 
for your husband. Science, I am sorry to say, 
can do nothing for him. Tell Doctor La Belleuse 
to come in. 

[She goes out to the waiting room and ushers 
La Belleuse in. He is a man of about thirty- 
five, good looking but insipid. He wears several 
foreign orders] 

The Doctor. Excuse me, my friend, for 
receiving you here today, but my office is 
littered with trunks and packages. We have 
had a shock. My step-son owns a lot of land 
at Ebreville and the manager he has put in 
charge there is stealing from him. Good Dr. 
Richon, the physician at Ebreville, came to 
Paris this morning to tell us about it. And so 
we are leaving earlier than we intended to. 
But let us get down to business. Besides, we 
are in a hurry, as my niece expects some 
callers here. 



The Escape 111 

La Belleuse. [Opening a portfolio] Here 
you are ! 

The Doctor. What have you there? 

La Belleuse. These are the proofs of your 
biography. I have done the work, I assure 
you, with the greatest care. 

The Doctor. Ah! Let's see. 

La Belleuse. Your picture here. 

The Doctor. Do I look like that? 

La Belleuse. Yes and no. There is some- 
thing lacking. 

The Doctor. Ah yes! it's imperceptible. 
Well, have you any news? 

La Belleuse. About? 

The Doctor. Yes. 

La Belleuse. You were told right — there 
are three crosses of the commander. 

The Doctor. We shall have to find out, 
then, to which ministry they belong. If they 
come under the department of public instruc- 
tion we must bring more into the foreground the 
work I did as a professor; if they come under 
the department of the interior, we will merely 
mention my other official titles. But we will 
talk of my affairs later! Let us now clear up 
the things of secondary importance. Do you 
want to ask my advice about anything? 

La Belleuse. Yes, dear master. I have 



112 Brieux 

something that bothers me: I have a patient 
whom I cannot cure. 

The Doctor. Such things will happen. 

La Belleuse. Evidently, but — he wants 
to go to Lourdes. 

The Doctor. Let him go. 

La Belleuse. [Astonished] You don't mean 
it — suppose he gets cured? 

The Doctor. You can always find some 
sort of scientific explanation. 

La Belleuse. Suggestion? 

The Doctor. Of course! — that answers 
almost every question. Now what else? 

La Belleuse. Then I have ^Probard — a 
client about whom I have already spoken to 
you. He hasn't more than a week to live. 

The Doctor. Call in another doctor. That 
will free you from the responsibility. 

La Belleuse. But — Probard is a man of 
some standing. 

The Doctor. Then call in two doctors for 
consultation. 

La Belleuse. Very well — then, at the 
salle Saint Therese, number four is still in the 
same condition. 

The Doctor. Have you tried everything? 

La Belleuse. Everything. 

The Doctor. Even to doing nothing? 



The Escape 113 

La Belleuse. Even that. Not one of 
us can tell what is the matter with her. 

The Doctor. [Sighs] Then we shall not 
know until after the autopsy. So we must 
wait! 

La Belleuse. And stop all treatment? 

The Doctor. No. One must never have 
the appearance of not being interested. That 
would be a mistake. An unpardonable mistake. 
Do something, no matter what. Is that all? 

La Belleuse. Yes, I think that is every- 
thing. 

The Doctor. Well, now let us get down to 
my business. [La Belleuse sits down] Do 
you know the number of patients who were 
treated at the clinic? 

La Belleuse. There were not so many pa- 
tients as last year. 

The Doctor. In that case let us not talk 
about it any longer. 

La Belleuse. That is what I thought. 

The Doctor. Now about my biography! 
— Let's see! [He reads a moment in a low 
voice] Isn't this a bit too strong: " Dr. 
Bertry is one of the medical celebrities of the 
century!!!" 

La Belleuse. [Taking a pen] Well — we 
can put "of the last twenty years." 

The Doctor. [Stopping him] Never mind! 



114 Brieux 

I'll leave myself in your hands; you under- 
stand this sort of thing better than I do. 

La Belleuse. Then shall we say, "of the 
last twenty years"? 

The Doctor. [Stopping him again] Wait! 
— it's for you to decide. Bah! let it go as it 
is. Ah, but we'll have to modify this passage: 
"Dr. Bertry's fame dates from 1866. At that 
time a small doctor in Compiegne, he had the 
good fortune to care for and cure one of the 
ladies of the Court, Madame de X. This 
marvelous cure brought to him the admiration 
and friendship of the emperor, who gave him 
the title of," etc. 

La Belleuse. But isn't that correct? 

The Doctor. Yes. But the form is bad. 
Write [he walks up and down while he dictates 
as follows]: "In 1866, Dr. Bertry, although he 
was living in Compiegne, had already ac- 
quired such renown that a lady of the Court — 
of the imperial Court — Madame de X — had 
recourse to his treatment. Dr. Bertry cured 
her, and the emperor, hearing of this marvelous 
cure — this marvelous cure, had him called to 
Paris. The — celebrated doctor," — it's all right 
to say celebrated doctor, isn't it? — " although 
it was an act which did violence to his politi- 
cal opinions, went where duty called him — " 
[Bertry has now come close to La Belleuse, and 



The Escape 115 

reads over his shoulders] Have you all that? 
Good! "During the epidemic he exposed his 
life to all sorts of dangers a thousand times, 
in company with Dr. Miron." But no! Erase: 
"in company with Dr. Miron." That would 
look too much like an advertisement. [La 
Belleuse erases it] 

La Belleuse. The rest is devoted to your 
work on heredity. 

The Doctor. Ah! I was wondering whether 
you had forgotten that. Well, read it! 

La Belleuse. [Reading] "But what, above 
all, constitutes the work of Dr. Bertry are his 
studies on heredity. Going farther than Lucas, 
Morel, and Galton, Bertry has shown the in- 
vincible power of these laws, henceforth im- 
mutable. His various works on this subject 
represent the fruits of thirty years of unin- 
terrupted toil." 

The Doctor. [Who has again come up to La 
Belleuse] Put in there: " Twelve volumes pub- 
lished by Alcan — " [La Belleuse writes] Do 
you mention my extensive correspondence with 
the Academy? 

La Belleuse. Yes. 

The Doctor. And with the newspapers? 

La Belleuse. No. 

The Doctor. Write: "Even the political 
organs have spoken, in the most eulogistic 



116 Brieux 

manner, of the discoveries made by this savant, 
for Dr. Bertry has never scorned interviews." 
Wait — that sentence might not be interpreted 
correctly — yes — add: "And this, not be- 
cause he is seeking vulgar advertisement, of 
which he has the most abject horror, but only 
because of his desire to spread the truth !" 
What next? 

La Belleuse. [Reading] "Dr. Bertry has 
made heredity his own study; he has collected 
on this subject the most numerous and most 
convincing observations. Where his illustrious 
predecessors have made only timid suppositions, 
he has formulated principles, established certi- 
tudes." 

The Doctor. That is very good. 

La Belleuse. The rest has to do — 

The Doctor. Let's see it. [He reads; then 
laughs] Ha, ha, my young friend, you have not 
forgotten yourself. 

La Belleuse. [Rises, blushing] I? 

The Doctor. Yes, you! [Reading] "With 
the co-operation of the young and active Dr. 
La Belleuse, his devoted secretary and collab- 
orator — " 

La Belleuse. I thought — 

The Doctor. That's all right. You'd like 
something, eh? 

La Belleuse. Heavens! [Pointing to his 



The Escape 117 

buttonhole] I have, you know, nothing but for- 
eign orders. And I thought that the same 
promotion which gave the cravate rouge to the 
master, might perhaps give the humble disciple 
a bit of ribbon — of the same color. 

The Doctor. We'll see. 

La Belleuse. I am preparing some observa- 
tions on heredity, based on your theories. 
You haven't any new ones, have you? 

The Doctor. Yes. I have just sent three 
notes to my niece for her to copy. Observa- 
tions! There's no lack of them! 

La Belleuse. Of course, it would be foolish 
indeed still to doubt, after your admirable 
studies — and according to Auguste Comte, 
the dead have more influence on us than the 
living. 

The Doctor. That is true. Then you will 
attend to all these little details. Write to me, 
.and I will try to get something for you. 

La Belleuse. Dear master! 

The Doctor [Carelessly] That will make a 
good topic with which to start my talk with 
the minister — ah! tell me? Are you going 
at once to find out about the conferring of the 
crosses? 

La Belleuse. I'll go and come back im- 
mediately. 

The Doctor. That's right. [La Belleuse 



118 Brieux 

goes out] There's a nice chap for you! 

[Bertry arranges the papers that are lying about, 
then looks at himself in the mirror above the 
fireplace, at the left. He looks at his tongue, and 
feels his pulse. He rings the bell, and then sits 
down on the couch. He ponders a moment and 
sighs deeply. He rings again. Rosalie ap- 
pears.] 

The Doctor. My medicine. [Rosalie goes] 
And to think that I teach how to cure others! 

Rosalie. [Returning with a glass on a tray] 
You are not feeling any better, monsieur? 

The Doctor. [With ill-humor] Yes I am. 
And since I have told you that I do not want 
any one to speak about my health — you simply 
shout it out — you want the whole world to 
know about it. You and my brother are the 
only ones who know about my illness, and I do 
not want others. ... [He drinks] Yes, I had 
a bad night, there. Now are you satisfied? 

Rosalie. [Apologizing] But, monsieur — 

The Doctor. That's all right. Did you 
take my notes to Mademoiselle Lucienne? 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. She has finished the 
work that you gave her yesterday, monsieur. 

The Doctor. That's good! 

Rosalie. Could I have a word with you, 
monsieur, without disturbing you? 

The Doctor. Go ahead. 



The Escape 119 

Rosalie. It's still about my poor husband. 
As long as the doctors can do nothing for him. 

The Doctor. Well? 

Rosalie. [Hesitating] Do you, monsieur — 
do you perhaps know of pere Guernoche? 

The Doctor. Who is he? 

Rosalie. He is an old shepherd who comes 
from the same place I do — Ebreville, where 
we are going — I have been told that he has a 
secret and an elixir by which he cures all mal- 
adies. [Bertry shrugs his shoulders] And so I 
should like my poor Justin to see him. 

The Doctor. Do what you want to, but I 
warn you that Justin will be dead before he 
reaches Ebreville. 

Rosalie, If I were sure of that! 

The Doctor. Try it! 

Rosalie. But it's Justin himself who wants 
to go. He is convinced that pere Guernoche 
will cure him. When I told him yesterday that 
we were going to Ebreville he asked me whether 
I was going to take him along. I did not dare 
say no, and this morning he was already feel- 
ing much better. 

The Doctor. As a physician, I forbid you 
to allow your husband to travel. 

[Mr. Bertry enters] Here is my brother. 
Leave us! [Rosalie goes] 

Bertry. [Fifty-three years old] How are you? 



120 Brieux 

The Doctor. [After looking about, he speaks 
in a low voice] Always the same. 

Bertry. What kind of a night did you 
have? 

The Doctor. A bad one. 

Bertry. Poor fellow! Well, what is really 
the matter with you? 

The Doctor. If you knew more about sci- 
ence you would probably realize that physicians' 
illnesses are almost always exceptional cases. 

Bertry. And if one of your patients were 
afflicted with your malady? 

The Doctor. Ah! If it were a client, I 
should have to find some name for his sick- 
ness — and I should tell him that there was 
hope for his recovery — I should deceive him — 
but I cannot fool myself. 

Bertry. Why not see another doctor? 

The Doctor. You are crazy. 

Bertry. But why not? 

The Doctor. They'd make fun of me. 

Bertry You know my opinion of medicine, 
I don't believe in it — but as you are forced to 
believe in it, I thought — 

The Doctor. That's all right. Have you 
found a new manager? 

Bertry. No. 

The Doctor. Good Dr. Richon has gone to 
look for one. Doesn't the idea of putting your- 



The Escape 121 

self at the head of this great agricultural ex- 
ploitation tempt you at all? 

Bertry. Tempt me? You think, then, that 
because I was formerly a manufacturer I could 
now transform myself into a farmer, at my 
age? But why don't you send your step-son to 
take charge of things at fibre ville? 

The Doctor. Jean? 

Bertry. Of course! The lands are his. 
He is sickly, and that life will make him feel 
better. 

The Doctor. Nothing of the kind. 

Bertry. But — 

The Doctor. [In a superior manner] Come, 
come now! You are not going to pretend to 
discuss such things with me, I hope? I am very 
much afraid that nothing can save Jean from 
his melancholy. 

Bertry. But why? 

The Doctor. When I married his mother, 
you remember he was only two years old, and 
she died a short while after our marriage. I 
brought up Jean then, and he has grown up 
under my eyes — I know what is the matter 
with him. 

Bertry. What? 

The Doctor. Jean belongs to a family in 
which hypochondria and suicide are hereditary. 

Bertry. But isn't there a cure for that? 



122 Brieux 

The Doctor. Yes, but it works only on rare 
occasions. I have done what I could; I wanted 
to distract him, and have him out in the open; 
I sent him to college in the country, in order 
to ease my conscience, but all, of course, was of 
no avail. When he reached his twenty-fifth 
year I used the great means. 

Bertry. You frighten me. 

The Doctor. I bade him summon up all his 
strength; then I told him his father's life story; 
I told him of the terrible ancestral influence that 
hung over him; I gave him my books to read, 
trusting that, knowing of the dangers which 
beset him, he would decide to save himself, to 
react. He was sadder than before. 

Bertry. That does not surprise me! 

The Doctor. You remember — it was when 
he fell in love with your daughter. [After re- 
flecting] Come to think of it, that would be 
a good reason for making him leave here. 

Bertry. Oh, you can be easy about that! 
Jean is so timid that he would never dare say 
a word to Lucienne about it. Besides, he keeps 
away from her, and they treat each other as if 
they were strangers. He once confided in me, 
and I then told you his secret, which I alone 
was to know. And when he found out that 
you were opposed to this marriage — in the 
name of science — 



The Escape 123 

The Doctor. Yes, in the name of science. 

Bertry. He bowed down to your will, and 
so did I. 

The Doctor, I am glad! 

Bertry. He has tried traveling. 

The Doctor. Yes, and he came back just as 
sad* as he was when he went away. 

Bertry. Yes — you haven't changed your 
opinion about this union? 

The Doctor. I have not changed my opin- 
ion. 

Bertry. Just the same — you ought to be 
very certain about what you say when you take 
such responsibilities upon yourself. 

The Doctor. I take them without the least 
hesitation. 

Bertry. Here is Dr. Richon. 

[Dr. Richon enters. He is an old country 
doctor. He wears a white tie, but does not appear 
at all ridiculous] 

The Doctor. Well, my friend? 

Richon. I haven't been able to find any one 
— but I have an idea. Why doesn't Jean take 
matters into his own hands? Excuse me, please, 
for calling him Jean. I saw him come into the 
world. 

The Doctor. Jean would never want to. 

Richon. It would be wonderful for his 
health. 



124 Brieux 

The Doctor. I agree with you. [He rings 
the bell] But you shall see for yourself. [To 
Rosalie] Tell Monsieur Jean I want to speak to 
him. [Rosalie goes] 

Richon. I shall be so glad to shake hands 
with him! I have now been practicing for more 
than thirty years in his birthplace, Ebreville. 
I helped a bit in bringing him up. I was both 
his mother's and his father's physician, alas! 

[Jean enters from the right. He is twenty- 
eight years old, and has a very sad face] 

Jean. How do you do, my good doctor? 

Richon. How are you, my dear boy? [They 
shake hands] 

The Doctor. Sit down. There are three 
of us here who are very fond of you: your 
uncle, Dr. Richon, and I. We were talking 
about you — and we were wondering why you 
yourself would not take care of your lands at 
Ebreville. 

Jean. I? 

Richon. Yes. 

Jean. What would be the good of it? 

Bertry. But, my Lord, I'd understand your 
attitude if you only got some good out of your 
life here in Paris. 

Jean. You find Paris gay? 

Bertry. Of course. 

Richon. If you do not care for Paris, why 



The Escape 125 

do you refuse to go down to Ebreville? The air 
is much better there than here. I am sure that 
you would feel better, too. Don't you think so, 
dear master? 

The Doctor. Obviously, Besides, it is now 
quite the thing to be a country gentleman. 
One hunts, rides — and Ebreville is but an 
hour away from Dieppe. 

Bertry. Doesn't that mean anything to 
you? 

Jean. But why do you want me to go down 
there into all that confusion? 

Richon. In order to safeguard your fortune. 

Bertry. That's the reason. 

Jean. Yes — you are right, I feel that I 
ought to follow your advice, but I haven't the 
power really to want to. And besides, I shall al- 
ways have enough to give me all that I desire. 
So what is the good of it? 

Bertry. What is the good of it? That is 
your answer to everything. For that matter, 
what is the good of living? 

Jean. I ask myself that very question. 

Richon. You'll make yourself ill. 

Jean. I am ill now. 

Richon. Very ill. 

Jean. All the better! 

Bertry. I tell you, the youth of today is 
happy! You are the last of the romanticists, 



126 Brieux 

my dear fellow, and you speak like one of Cha- 
teaubriand's heroes. But for heaven's sake, do 
something, laugh! 

Jean. You think that is possible? 

Bertry. You only have to want to do it. 

Richon. If you are confident that you will 
be cured you will get well. 

Jean. Just as some people are born hunch- 
backed, I was born sad. They can wish in 
vain to become straight. They never will be! 

The Doctor. You see, my dear Richon, 
nothing can be done. Are you going to spend 
several days in Paris? 

Richon. No. I am returning this evening — 
I have two little rogues coming into the world 
in Ebreville. 

The Doctor. Should you like to visit my 
clinic? 

Richon. I should very much like to. 

The Doctor. Here is my card. My secre- 
tary, Dr. La Belleuse, will act as your guide. 
Au revoir, my good Richon. [Richon goes out] 

Bertry. A carriage has just driven up. It 
is Madame de Cattenieres. 

The Doctor. I'm going — she will ask for a 
consultation. Stay here, Jean — and you, tell 
Lucienne. [He goes] 

Jean. [To Bertry] Will you allow me to? 
Stay here a moment. 



The Escape 127 

Bertry. Are you afraid of being left alone 
with Madame de Cattenieres? 

Jean. Almost. 

[Mme. de Cattenieres enters] 

Mme. de Cattenieres. How do you do, 
Monsieur Bertry — ■ and you, Monsieur Jean? 
How glad I am to see you ! And Lucienne -— 
she is well? — all the better! I can't stand it 
any longer. Thank heavens the season to go 
to the seashore is almost here. I don't know 
whether I can hold out to the end. I'll have to 
tell you my programme for the day. 

Bertry. I'll go get Lucienne, who would be 
sorry not to hear it. Will you excuse me? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Yes, go — Monsieur 
Jean will keep me company. 

Bertry. He will be charmed, I am sure. 
[He goes] 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Is it true — that 
, you will be charmed? I should so love to have 
a long talk with you! You are sad. Oh, do 
not try to deny it! You know women notice 
those things immediately — I always thought 
that you fostered a silent grande passion. 

The Servant. Monsieur and Madame Lon- 
guyon. [They enter — Madame Longuyon is a 
pretty, vivacious woman] 

Mme. de Cattenieres. My dear friend! 
How are you, Monsieur Longuyon — [There is 



128 



Brieux 



a short conversation at the doorway. During this 
time Jean goes out] Lucienne will be here in a 
moment, so sit down — Monsieur Jean and I 
were just saying — Why he's gone, the rascal — - 
We were talking of the Lombard-Dubois — 
You were there last night? What a lovely 
affair it was! 

Longuyon. Yes, but it lasted too long. 

Mme. Longuyon. You should have gone 
home alone. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Of course. 

Longuyon. And left my wife among those 
youngsters? No, Madame de Cattenieres, I am 
not that type of a husband. 

Mme. Longuyon. As it was, we left before 
the end of the cotillion. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Was the cotillion 
gay? 

Mme. Longuyon. Very gay. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Why of course, it 
must have been, since it was led by Dr. La 
Belleuse, who is the best cotillion leader of the 
times. 

The Servant. Dr. La Belleuse. [La Bel- 
leuse enters] 

La Belleuse. Are you laughing about me? 
[To Longuyon, who has risen] Hello, Longuyon! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. It was about you — 
I was saying to Monsieur Longuyon that you 



The Escape 129 

must be a great success with your pretty pa- 
tients. 

La Belleuse. [In spite of himself, he imi- 
tates Dr. Bertry's manner of speech during the 
following] You are making an error, madame, 
that almost every one makes. A regrettable 
error. A doctor's office is not a boudoir, I 
assure you; it is a confessional for human 
miseries, and when love is spoken of there, the 
subject is a good deal less amusing than you 
can possibly imagine. For us a patient is not 
a woman, but simply a sick person, and there 
you are ! 

Mme. de Catteni£res. I beg your pardon. 

Longuyon. You are a good man, doctor! 
[Softly] I have a word to say to you. Listen 
— my wife cannot make up her mind to go and 
see you, although I have begged her to — and 
her health troubles me. Will you take advan- 
tage of this meeting to give her a lecture? It 
would be awfully kind of you. 

La Belleuse. I shall be very glad to. 

[Longuyon takes La Belleuse up to where his 
wife is. She has turned a bit away] 

Longuyon. I'll leave you here! 

[He returns to Mme. de Cattenieres, excuses 
himself, and walks to the fireplace, upon which 
he leans his elbow. From here he makes signs 



130 Brieux 

to La Belleuse who is standing next to Mme. 
Longuyon] 

La Belleuse. [To Mme. Longuyon in a low 
voice] I waited for you, Helene, all yesterday 
afternoon. 

Mme. Longuyon. I could not come. 

La Belleuse. Then you do not love me? 

Mme. Longuyon. You know very well that 
I do! You are smiling? 

La Belleuse. Yes, your husband is making 
signs of encouragement to me. 

[La Belleuse smiles at Longuyon and nods his 
head 9 as if to say: "Everything will be all right 9 '] 

Longuyon. [To Mme. de Cattenieres] That 
Dr. La Belleuse has a heart of gold. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Who has been watch- 
ing all the proceedings] Hasn't he, though? 

Longuyon. Are you doing the honors here? 
I'm not complaining that you are, remember! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Lucienne is coming. 

Longuyon. And her father? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. He is probably with 
his brother. 

Longuyon. I have always wondered how 
two people so entirely different as the doctor 
and his brother could live together. Monsieur 
Bertry made his fortune in business, didn't he? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Not exactly; he 
rebuilt it there, for at the age of twenty-five 



The Escape 131 

he had squandered his part of his inheritance. 

Longuyon. Ah! Women? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. No — just one 
woman! That is, the others did not come until 
later. 

Longuyon. He did not try to reform? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. On the contrary. 
He had them all, from country ladies to his own 
factory workers — faugh ! 

Longuyon. Don Juan! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. A Don Juan, manu- 
facturing woolens — that's what he is. 

Longuyon. And his wife never knew — 

Mme. de Cattenieres. His wife? 

Longuyon. Madame Bertry? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You knew Madame 
Bertry? 

Longuyon. No. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Your wife knew her? 
. Longuyon. Don't bother her. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. That's right. If you 
know nothing about it, let's consider that I have 
said nothing. 

Longuyon. Then there is something? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Nothing. Dear 
Lucienne is making us wait a long while. 

Longuyon. Perhaps she is working with 
her uncle. They tell me that she acts as his 
secretary. 



132 Brieux 

Mme. de Cattenieres. And why not? Doc- 
tor Bertry loves to dictate, and his latest works 
on heredity have been entirely transcribed by 
Lucienne. 

Longtjyon. What a charming girl she is! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Isn't she, though? 
A bit eccentric. She gets that from her 
mother. 

Longuyon. You know her then? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Who, the mother? 

Longuyon. Yes. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. She is dead. 

Longuyon. Well, then, did you know her? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Shocked] I ! — 
Heavens, no ! — But you will not make me tell 
you what I would rather not talk about — Of 
all the young girls I know I love Lucienne best. 

Longuyon. She is a good match. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Of course! 

Longuyon. Wasn't she to be married some 
time ago? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. To Paul de Mau- 
cour? 

Longuyon. Yes. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Why surely. A 
very natural indiscretion, however, stopped 
everything. 

Longuyon. An indiscretion? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. And Paul de Mau- 



The Escape 133 

cour married Alice, Lucienne's best friend. But 
that's all old. They have returned from their 
honeymoon and have even called on Lucienne, and 
she was very glad to see them. 

Longuyon. You don't mean it! He took his 
wife to visit his former fiancee? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Paul de Maucour is 
one of Jean Belmont's class mates. 

Longuyon. Nevertheless — 

Mme. de Cattenieres. But it was Lucienne 
who wanted them to come. 

Longuyon. A propos of this broken engage- 
ment, you were speaking of an indiscretion. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You are getting 
wrong ideas into your head. I see that the 
best thing to do is to tell you everything. Well, 
Lucienne's mother was one of the prominent 
cocottes of the end of the Empire: there you 
are, now — that's everything ! [Lucienne enters] 
Why, here is Lucienne! [She goes to her] How 
do you do, my dear? It has seemed a long 
while, in spite of the company of this gentleman, 
who is a chatterer. But you look superb! 

Lucienne. [To Mme. de Cattenieres] Please 
excuse me — but we have had to hurry our de- 
parture for Ebreville. How do you do, La 
Belleuse? Please don't get up. [She shakes 
hands with Mme. Longuyon and La Belleuse] 



134 



Brieux 



Please don't move! [She joins Mme. de Cat- 
tenieres] Yes, my dear! 

Longuyon. [Goes on his tiptoes to the center 
table and takes up an album. La Belleuse and 
Mme. Longuyon move slightly] I'm going to 
look at the pictures. 

[He goes to the rear table and sits down] 

Lucienne. [To Mme. de Cattenieres] I'll 
tell you what has been keeping me — there are 
a lot of good people down at Ebreville to whom 
I take clothes and good things to eat every time 
I go down there. If they should see me arrive 
with empty hands — 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You don't mean to 
say that you do that sort of thing? 

Lucienne. [A little nervous] You are sur- 
prised? You never thought that I could dream 
of anything but clothes, say anything but triv- 
ialities, or do anything but flirt! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Not at all, I assure 
you. 

Lucienne. Come, come! Now don't try to 
get out of it. And you are not the only one 
who thinks so. After all, you are right. And 
when I do other things I meddle with what 
isn't my business. But let us talk of you! 
How have you been? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Not well. At one 



The Escape 135 

time I have a voracious appetite, and then I 
cannot eat at all. 

[They continue speaking in a low voice] 

Mme. Longttyon. [Rising, to La Belleuse] No 
— I say no. You see — this idea of dividing 
myself between my husband and you revolts me. 

La Belleuse. If that is all — 

Mme. Longuyon. What do you mean, if 
that is all! 

La Belleuse. You'll see. 

[He approaches Longuyon and takes him by the 
arm. Mme. Longuyon joins Lucienne] 

Lucienne. Alice de Maucour! Is she still 
my best friend? Of course! And why not? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. And her husband? 

Lucienne. He is also still one of my friends, 
my dear. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You knew it, Ma- 
dame Longuyon? 

Mme. Longuyon. Why, surely! 

Lucienne. He is still one of my friends, 
and if you will stay here a little while longer 
you will be able to see for yourself, for I know 
that both of them are coming to bid me good- 
bye. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. I have been told — 

Lucienne. There are so many people with 
evil tongues ! 

La Belleuse. [To Longuyon, drawing him up 



136 Brieux 

the stage] My dear man, I have had a long 
talk with your wife. 

Longuyon. Well? 

La Belleuse. You are right. Her apparent 
good health is only on the surface. She needs 
a great deal of care, a great deal of care. 

Longuyon. That is what I thought. 

La Belleuse. But even more than you 
imagine. [They continue speaking softly] 

Longuyon. Very well, I promise you. 

La Belleuse. Well and good! [They shake 
hands. To Lucienne] I am leaving now, and 
I want to wish you a very pleasant trip. 

Lucienne. Good-bye — Good-bye. 

[La Belleuse goes out] 

The Servant. Monsieur and Madame de 
Maucour. 

[Alice embraces Lucienne. Paul shakes hands 
with her and then greets Mme. de Cattenieres] 

Alice. How are you? 

Lucienne. And you? 

Alice. I am so glad to be with you again. 

Lucienne. And I am glad to have you here. 

Alice. You know that we are going to 
Dieppe this year. 

Lucienne. Then we shall see one another. 

Alice. I should think so! 

Lucienne. fibre ville is seven and a half 
miles from Dieppe. 



The Escape 137 

Alice. A half hour by bicycle. 

Lucienne. Do you ride? 

Alice. Yes, with Paul. We love it. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. I am going, my 
dear Lucienne. I don't want to intrude on two 
such good friends. 

Lucienne. You are not intruding — 

Mme. de Cattenieres. I am just fooling. 
I want to try to catch Dr. La Belleuse and see 
whether he can tell me what's the matter with 
me. 

Alice. Are you ill, my dear? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. At one time I have 
a voracious appetite, and then I cannot eat at 
all. I am going to tell the doctor about it. 
Please do not rise. [She goes] 

Alice. I can hardly believe, when I see us 
two here, that it is I who am the "madame" — 
Who ever would have thought that I should be 
the first to marry! 

Lucienne. Why not? 

Alice. [Carelessly] Oh, my dear, but you 
are older than I am! [A pause] You will never 
guess what people have told me: that you were 
to marry Paul. Of course I laughed! 

Lucienne. You should not have — for it is 
true. 

Alice. You don't really mean it ! 

Lucienne. Why, yes — 



138 Brieux 

Alice. Were things pretty far advanced? 

Lucienne. Far enough! 

Alice. Did your relatives plan it? 

Lucienne. No, we did — we were in love 
with each other. 

Alice. Ah! 

Lucienne. Probably seeing you was enough 
for him. 

Alice. That probably would have sufficed; 
but your engagement was already broken when 
he met me. Why was it broken? 

Lucienne. I don't know. 

Alice. Listen, dear Lucienne, I have some- 
thing to tell you. You have a lot of enemies, 
and people are saying nasty things about you. 

Lucienne. [Raising her voice a little] About 
me? What do they say? I beg you to tell 
me what they say. 

Alice. Do not talk so loud. It's not ex- 
actly about you that people are talking — and 
besides, what they say is so improbable. And 
finally, I don't understand about such things 
at all — I was told — I am telling you this in 
your interest — I was told that when Paul's 
parents refused their consent to your marriage 
it was not on your account. 

Lucienne. It was on account of my mother, 
wasn't it? 

Alice. [Embarrassed] Not exactly. 



The Escape 139 

Lucienne. That's all right. I did not know 
that, and I thank you for telling me about it. 

x\lice. Anyway, you need not feel any great 
regrets; for if Paul had really loved you deeply, 
as you deserved, he would have done more to 
overcome his parents' remonstrances. But I 
appear to be monopolizing you. You are not 
angry with me, are you? [She rises, and ap- 
proaches the Longayons] 

Lucienne. Xo — [Paul de Maucour ap- 
proaches Lucienne] Monsieur de Maucour? 

Paul. Mademoiselle Lucienne! 

Lucienne. A word, please! Won't people 
say that you are running after me? 

Paul. I have been made to treat you so 
badly, Lucienne, that I was waiting for you to 
reproach me. 

Lucienne. Bah! It makes little difference 
to me. 

Paul. I loved you a great deal, Lucienne! 

Lucienne. [Softly] And I too, I loved you! 

Paul. And I still love you — I ask your 
forgiveness — I should not speak like this to a 
young girl. 

Lucienne. Oh, nonsense! Am I a young 
girl like the others? 

Paul. Yes. But better than the others. 
The man who gets you for a wife may consider 
himself lucky. 



140 Brieux 

Lucienne. Do not say what you do not 
really believe. Besides, I shall never marry. 

Paul. Have you so little love in you? 

Lucienne. But I did not say that — 

Paul. Then you love me? 

[Jean enters. Lucienne bursts into a loud 
laugh, then she says softly] 

Lucienne. You are a fool! — What is there 
new in Paris? Do you go to the theater? 

Paul. Yesterday I took Alice to the Casino 
des Larbins. 

Lucienne. Where? 

Paul. Oh, it's quite the place to go now-a- 
days. You see every one there. You should 
see the line of carriages that stands in front 
every night. 

Lucienne. What is the attraction? 

Paul. A pantomime : The Night in the Seraglio. 

Lucienne. And that is? [She snaps her 
fingers] 

Paul. [Looks at her in a surprised manner. 
Smiling] You have become quite modernized 
during the last six months. 

Lucienne. You think so? I tell you, it 
was not hard for me to change. 

Paul. Ah! 

Lucienne. Yes. 

[A pause, during which Paul is visibly em- 
barrassed] 



The Escape 141 

Paul. You were asking me? I really don't 
remember what any more — 

Lucienne. I was asking you about the 
pantomime — is it rather free? 

Paul. One can go only if one takes a box. 

Lucienne. I am sorry that I am not mar- 
ried. If I were I should immediately go to 
see your masterpiece. 

Paul. If there were not so many con- 
ventions — 

Lucienne. [Laughing loudly] I might go 
with you some evening? 

Paul. I did not say that. 

Lucienne. I should hope not. 

Paul. Shall we be good friends — Lucienne? 

Lucienne. [Giving him her hand] As good 
as you wish. 

Paul. [Holding her hand] You are more 
adorable than ever and I love you more than I 
ever did before. 

Lucienne. [Releasing her hand] And in an- 
other way. 

Alice. [Coming up to them] I am sorry 
to have to interrupt you — but you know, Paul, 
that they are waiting for us. [To Lucienne] 
Good-bye, my dear, and bon voyage, 

Lucienne. Then it's understood that we shall 
see vou at Ebreville? 



142 Brieux 

Alice. Unless, by chance, we should not go 
to Dieppe. 

[Lucienne takes them to the door. Longuyon 
and his wife join them, and all say good-bye] 

Jean. You should not compromise yourself 
thus, Lucienne. 

Lucienne. And why, pray? 

Jean. You should not jest with Paul de 
Maucour as you do, and you should not allow 
him to speak to you as he does. 

Lucienne. That appears to be my business. 

Jean. You are wrong. It is also your 
friends' business. 

Lucienne. I haven't any friends: or rather 
I have so many; which amounts to none at all. 

Jean. You have at least one good one. 

Lucienne. You? 

Jean. Me. 

Lucienne. After all, perhaps that is true, 
for I cannot see any reason why you should lie 
to me about it. 

Jean. Your actions, however, affect my 
friendship for you. 

Lucienne. Because? 

Jean. Because you are preparing yourself 
for unhappiness. 

Lucienne. Do you think so? 

Jean. Seeing you so inconsistent, who do 
you think will marry you? 



The Escape 143 

Lucienne. And who tells you, pray, that I 
want to marry? 

Jean. You hate the idea of marriage? 

Lucienne. I do not hate it; but it is for- 
bidden to me. 

Jean. What do you mean? 

Lucienne. It's true that you are not inter- 
ested in the scandal of the day. We have not 
met much. You do not like to talk, you never 
leave your room, where your misanthropy keeps 
you; you have not been in Paris long and you 
do not know things about me that the whole 
world is talking of. Well! Now you shall 
learn the state of affairs! A man can make me 
his mistress but never his wife. However, I 
am not any worse than other young girls; I 
was not more perverted than Alice, my former 
friend, and Paul de Maucour married her. But, 
on account of my birth, I am doomed to evil. 

Jean. [Moved] By your birth! Will you 
please explain? 

Lucienne. What good will that do? 

Jean. Well, I, I, too, am doomed to evil, 
and through no fault of mine. 

Lucienne. I received at birth a fatal heri- 
tage. 

Jean. I also am crushed by a fatal heritage, 
as you call it. My father transmitted to me 
the melancholy which poisoned him through 



144 Brieux 

life. Ah, Lucienne, tell me your troubles; no 
one, no one can understand them better than I. 

Lucienne. I have to carry the burden of 
my mother's indiscretions. She transmitted to 
me all the sadness of her life — no, I am wrong, 
she gave to me repentance for her pleasures, 
for she led a gay life, and it is I who am pun- 
ished. 

Jean. Do not speak like that of your 
mother, Lucienne. 

Lucienne. [Rising] Ah, yes! The con- 
ventional filial respect! You see, I was never 
taught that. My father loves me in his way, 
he does what he can for me. It's not his fault 
that his pleasures have always taken up the 
greater part of his time. It is true that he rec- 
ognized me, but he has always left the problem 
of my education in his brother's hands. As to 
my mother, I have already let you imagine what 
she was. Filial respect! Believe that I am a 
monster, if you will, but I have searched in 
every corner of my heart — still I cannot find 
that respect there! 

Jean. I do not dare — I cannot ask you to 
explain. 

Lucienne. In order to have you understand 
it will only be necessary for me to mention my 
mother's name, for she was celebrated. Twenty- 
five years ago the daily papers mentioned her 



The Escape 145 

name a million times; why, even pamphlets 
were published with her picture and an account 
of her life — I would have blushed to read them 
even if she had been a total stranger to me — 
Her name was Sophie Claret; I look like her; 
I have her mannerisms, the same vocal intona- 
tions — an old friend of my father's told me so 

— and I have her spirit, too. 

Jean. How did you come to know all this? 

Lucienne. It was a long time ago. I was 
expelled from a convent after I had been there 
but a week. They made some sort of an ex- 
cuse; but a little friend of mine who did not 
understand what she was saying, told me that 
I had been expelled because I was the daughter 
of Sophie Claret. You know what that means 
to a young girl. At first, I was very much sur- 
prised, then I forgot about it. However, I 
already felt that I was different from the aver- 
age. My uncle would often stop my father 
when he scolded me. He would say: "Leave 
the poor child alone; you cannot make her over, 
she has it in her blood." I can still remember 

— I think I was seventeen when I overheard 
this conversation between two young people: — 
"Lucienne Bertry — there is nothing to fear 
with her. One can't be compelled to marry 
her. " I heard nothing more excepting the 
name of my mother. Finally, four years ago, 



146 Brieux 

in opening a paper, — I don't know where I 
got it from — ■ that same name met my eyes. 
This time I wanted to know. By making a 
little effort, with the help of a few tricks, I 
cannot tell you just how, I was finally en- 
lightened — 

Jean. Poor little girl! 

Lucienne. Yes, poor little girl! Two years 
ago Paul de Maucour proposed marriage to me. 
Then he suddenly disappeared, and when he 
returned he was married to Alice. I im- 
mediately knew the reason. 

Jean. On account of your mother's name? 

Lucienne. Eh! It's not a question of her 
name! But people are afraid that I am ex- 
actly like her, do you understand? And deep 
down I am afraid that they are right. I have 
written, from my uncle's dictation, his latest 
works on heredity. Can you now guess with 
what eagerness I have listened during the last 
four years to his lectures on heredity — im- 
placable heredity, as he calls it? Can you 
understand with what eagerness I have read and 
reread all of his books? There are times, how- 
ever, when I ask myself whether they are right, 
with all their science — for at balls, during 
flirtations, more than once, I have felt re- 
bellion and loathing rise up in my breast. What 
they called love disgusted me. But I honestly 



The Escape 147 

thought that I should not play the prude and I 
strained to overcome my loathings — I succeeded 

— and just a little while ago I listened, smilingly, 
to words which formerly would have driven me 
almost mad. 

Jean. Lucienne ! 

Lucienne. I really dreamed of other things 

— I thought that my happiness in later life 
would be in devoting myself to some one whom 
I loved — for whom I should have the affec- 
tion that one has for little children — for, in 
my mind, this some one was weak — 

Jean. [Who has listened with the greatest 
emotion, and who now sits down close to her] 
Unhappy? 

Lucienne. Yes. 

Jean. Like me, Lucienne? 

Lucienne. Like you. He would have to 
be cared for more carefully than any one else 
in the world. 

Jean. [Putting his hands before his face] 
Lucienne ! Lucienne ! 

Lucienne. Jean! 

Jean. I suffer the same as you do — I was 
three years old when my father committed 
suicide — 

Lucienne. I was three years old when my 
mother died. 

Jean. I also have read all of Dr. Bertry's 



148 Brieux 

books, and like you, Lucienne, I am in despair! 
Our unhappiness is the same. 

Lucienne. Yes, the same. 

Jean. My life is lost. 

Lucienne. Mine too! 

Jean. I long for death to set me free! 

Lucienne. I have not the right even to 
dream of the happiness that belongs to every 
woman. [Sobbing] But truly, Jean, truly,' do 
you not think that it is sad, very sad, that there 
are human beings who are fated even before 
their birth to be consecrated to all the bitter- 
ness, all the disasters of life? Isn't it unjust, 
isn't it more than unjust? 

Jean. Yes, it is unjust; unjust and unfor- 
tunate that we are locked in the faults and vices 
of our ancestors. 

Lucienne. It is like original sin — 

Jean. For which we are punished — 

Lucienne. Without having committed it — 
How well I understood your sadness! 

Jean. And how I understand yours! We 
are like two exiles who meet — 

Lucienne. Glad to speak of their native 
land, of their common misfortune — 

Jean. [Resting his head on Lucienne's shoul- 
der] And weep in each other's arms. 

Lucienne. [Stroking his hair] Yes, as we 



The Escape 149 

are doing! And, for a moment, their suffering 
would be lessened — 

[A pause. Both gradually become exalted 
during the following] 

Jean. Lucienne — these chains — these chains 
which the dead have hung on us — if we tried 
to break them? 

Lucienne. [Shows signs of great joy, then:] 
— Impossible — we are prisoners to whom all 
hope is denied — 

Jean. There is no prison from which an es- 
cape is impossible. [He rises] If you want 
to — we will try to escape. 

Lucienne. It is impossible! 

Jean. No, it is not. Alone, the idea would 
never have struck me, and I certainly should 
have lacked the strength to realise it. But 
with your help — both united in life — for I 
love you, Lucienne, and I have loved you for 
a long time. 

Lucienne. I know now. I know that I 
have loved you — for a long time already. 
For the husband of my dreams was like you. 

Jean. We will put the energy of our youth 
and the power of our love against their despair- 
ing science! 

Lucienne. I want to — but I am afraid! 
If we were mistaken, Jean, and if I could not 
escape! 



150 Brieux 

Jean. I would love you so — 

Lucienne. I am afraid of the influence of 
the dead. 

Jean. You will forget it — I will make you 
forget it. Besides, you will save me. Al- 
ready I feel that I have more strength. 

Lucienne. Ah, Jean! If it were possible! 
What happiness! If it were only possible! 

Jean. We are going to use every atom of 
our strength to combat it. Do you consent? 

Lucienne. I consent. 

Jean. [Holding her hands, and speaking with 
effusion] But I shall have to act immediately. 
We shall have to make our projects known 
immediately. I want to profit by this awaken- 
ing, this exaltation — for if I should wait I 
should be afraid that I might not have the 
power again. I am going to speak to your 
father. I told him a long while ago that I 
wanted to marry you; but at that time I had 
no real energy, for I did not know that you 
loved me. Ah, how happy we are going to 
be! [He goes — Dr. Bertry enters] 

The Doctor. Have all your callers gone? 

Lucienne. Yes. 

The Doctor. You are satisfied to go to 
fibre ville? 

Lucienne. Charmed, charmed, charmed! 



The Escape 151 

The Doctor. Why what is the matter with 
you? You are so excited! 

Lucienne. You will know very soon. A 
serious event is going to take place in my life. 

The Doctor. [Without attaching much sig- 
nificance to her words] Serious ! — serious, and 
at the same time happy? 

Lucienne. Yes, happy! 

The Doctor. All the better, all the better! 

[Lucienne goes out — Dr. Bertry is alone for 
a short while. Then Dr. La Belleuse enters with 
Dr. Richon and Dr. Morienval] 

La Belleuse. Come in, my dear friends. 
Come in! [To Dr. Bertry] Dear master, I am 
bringing Dr. Richon and our other colleague, 
Dr. Morienval, who, having heard of your de- 
parture, has come to pay his respects. 

Richon. Dear master — I have been as- 
tonished! Ah, the Parisians are lucky indeed 
in possessing establishments managed like those 
I have seen — for they must have cost — 

La Belleuse. The Parisians are luckier 
still, however, to receive in them treatment by 
Dr. Bertry. 

The Doctor. Gratuitously. 

Morienval. Gratuitously. 

The Doctor. [To Morienval] And you have 
just had your thesis accepted, sir? 

Morienval. Yes, dear master. My father 



152 Brieux 

said to me: "Be either a lawyer or a doctor; if 
you are not successful, you can always turn to 
politics." 

La Belleuse. By Jove, it's wonderful what 
power we exercise over others. 

Richon. Oh, power! 

La Belleuse. Our mere title gives it to us. 
You don't believe it? There is not a per- 
son on earth who, once knowing what we are, 
will not feel troubled if we look at them a bit 
insistently. Try it at the dinner table, at the 
theater, or wherever you like. Look fixedly 
at one of your friends who is in good health. 
Say to him with a certain air: "Are you feeling 
well?" He will be troubled, and his "yes" 
will already be full of anxiety. He will entreat 
you to tell him what you have noticed. Then 
reply: "Oh, nothing! I thought that you were 
a bit pale. Is your heart action perfectly all 
right?" And the next day that friend will be 
at your office, after having passed a sleepless 
night. He will ask you, with the naivete of all 
sick people, to give him a new heart in the 
place of his. 

Morienval. Does that sort of thing happen 
in the country, Dr. Richon? 

Richon. Oh, it's quite different in the 
country, you know — there, we love our work 
for its own sake. And besides, we are a bit 



The Escape 153 

friendly with our patients. In Ebreville, al- 
most every one who bows to me on the street 
has been helped into the world by me; I have 
been present at their weddings, and have seen 
their parents die. 

La Belleuse. You lose a great many of 
your cases? 

Richon. Not any more than one does here 
in Paris. I realise that I am not a savant, but 
I have seen so many that I am beginning to 
know them a little. 

Morienval. And are you perfectly con- 
tented? 

Richon. Heavens — I hardly dare to confess 
it here — I am proud of being a physician — 
I always feel a keen pleasure when, after I have 
entered a patient's room and found every one in 
tears, I have been able to leave with the con- 
sciousness that I have given a little hope. For, 
you know, a physician cures but rarely, relieves 
sometimes, but always consoles. The patients — 

La Belleuse. Ah, the patients! For all the 
gratitude that they show — 

Richon. Of course — they are often un- 
grateful. 

La Belleuse. Often! Always, you meant 
to say. 

Richon. I divide them into two classes: 
first, those whom I treat gratuitously, for I love 



154 



Brieux 



to do that; then come the patients who pay me. 
If I should ask for remuneration from both I 
should feel that I was being paid twice. And 
besides — my patients — I like to please them 
— that helps cure them. 

La Belleuse. [To Morienval] He belongs 
to the old school. 

Richon. [Who has not heard] I graduated 
from Caen. 

The Doctor. I only hope that there are a 
lot of physicians like you! 

Richon. You are making fun of me now — 
I am going to leave at once — you see, the train 
will not wait for me. 

The Doctor. I hope to see you again one 
of these days, Richon. 

[Richon leaves. La Belleuse and Morienval 
laugh] 

La Belleuse. He's a fine one! 

Morienval. The consolation of the parents! 

La Belleuse. And his joy — his joy when 
his patients are feeling better! 

Morienval. A doctor who is afraid of being 
paid twice! 

La Belleuse. When one has enough trouble 
in getting paid once! 

Morienval. And from Caen! 

The Doctor. Come, come now! You 
might be just a little indulgent. What do you 



The Escape 155 

expect? He is from the country — and doesn't 
know! 

[Bertry enters] 

Bertry. How do you do, gentlemen. 
Kindly pardon the intrusion. [Softly to his 
brother] Are you going to be busy much longer 
with these gentlemen? I have something very 
important to tell you! 

The Doctor. No, we have quite finished. 

[La Belleuse and Morienval bid him gocd-bye 
with much ceremony] 

The Doctor. What have you to tell me 
that is so important? 

Bertry. Jean and Lucienne want to marry. 

The Doctor. I thought that I had said 
once for all that I was opposed to their mar- 
riage. 

Bertry. Jean is in a terrible state of ex- 
citement. He knows now that Lucienne loves 
him. 

The Doctor. Lucienne loves him? After 
all, I am not surprised: degenerates seek each 
other out. And what did you say to it? 

Bertry. I saw them so confident, so reso- 
lute, so wrapped up in their happiness, that, 
after deliberation, I consented. 

The Doctor. You haven't any more balance 
than they have. 



156 



Brieux 



Bertry. Possibly! Then you refuse your 
consent? 

The Doctor. Absolutely 

Bertry. And why? 

The Doctor. Don't you really know? 

Bertry. You consented to take Lucienne 
under your roof in spite of her mother, and 
while your wife was still living. You did not 
then consider her unworthy to enter your 
family. 

The Doctor. It's not a question of that. 

Bertry. Kindly explain yourself. 

The Doctor. Very well! Before a year is 
up — do you understand? — before a year — 
Jean will have committed suicide — and Lu- 
cienne — 

Bertry. Albert! 

The Doctor. My poor fellow, I do not 
want to make you sad. But let us talk 
seriously, since it is a question of the happiness 
of these children, and do not take anything that 
I may say as a reproach for past conduct. 
Jean, like his father, is nervous and melancholy. 
As to Lucienne, understand me — she also 
has a heritage which prevents her from marry- 
ing. 

Bertry. [Crushed] We are, then, prisoners 
of the dead? 

The Doctor. You have said it. 



The Escape 157 

Bertry. [Becomes furious] You'll drive me 
crazy in the end with your science, your hered- 
ity! So men are nothing but unconscious 
brutes, without individuality, without will? 

The Doctor. You don't understand any- 
thing about such things! 

Bertry. Well, take us for example. You 
and I are sons of the same parents, and we 
should resemble one another; however — 

The Doctor. There are such things as 
cross heredity — there is atavism, a distant 
heredity. 

Bertry. But why is it that what is true 
for us is not true for them? 

The Doctor. It could have been. But 
one needs only to watch them for an hour to 
see that they are just like their parents. 

Bertry. But your science is wrong some- 
times; and there are always exceptions. 

The Doctor. Very few — Lucas, Morel, 
Galton and I have observed thousands of cases 
which showed the laws of heredity — 

Bertry. And how many cases, where these 
laws were shattered, did you not know about? 
You know the number of condemned thieves 
whose fathers were also condemned, but you 
do not know how many criminals there are 
whose children are perfectly honest. And even 
though your laws, your famous laws, might have 



158 Brieux 

been shattered but once, even though, through 
all of your observations you might have found 
but one vicious man whose offspring was not 
vicious, but one fool whose children were sane, 
I tell you that that one, that one and only case, 
should have stopped you from publishing on the 
strength of such doubtful authority, your sin- 
ister and bold laws, your hopeless laws, which, 
perhaps, have succeeded in making more vicious 
and insane people than heredity itself. 

The Doctor. What matter the victims? 
We believe that these laws are true, we must 
therefore formulate them — 

Bertry. You abuse your power — by being 
despots — 

The Doctor. Despots who are not afraid of 
being dethroned — 

Bertry. You are right. Your reign is not 
near its end. You are the good gods of an 
atheist people which has no other ideal than the 
perfect operation of its digestive organs. You 
are the last resource of credulity in this epoch 
of sham scepticism. 

The Doctor. Go on, my friend; but I am 
waiting until you feel ill. You will come to 
me as every one else does; you will show me 
your tongue, and be the very little boy, just 
like all the others. 

Bertry. That will prove nothing! Formerly, 



The Escape 159 

sick people prayed to God to cure them; now 
that they do not believe in God any longer, 
they believe in science, even more than you 
do, and you have inherited the power of the 
priests. 

The Doctor. Has the change meant any 
loss? 

Bertry. I think so — now they pay. 

The Doctor. Oh, oh! — They pay! 

Bertry. They "sell," if you wish it thus, 
they sell the hope of a future life that is less 
sad than this one. You, you are the ministers 
of this goddess of deception, who calls herself 
science ! — Medicine — 

The Doctor. Do not speak badly of medi- 
cine. It has had martyrs. 

Bertry. Not as many martyrs as victims! 

The Doctor. It has heroes. 

Bertry. I know that as well as you do; 
but for a Claude Bernard, a Pasteur, or a Doc- 
tor Roux, whom fame has reached in spite of 
themselves, locked up though they were in 
laboratories, for a certain number of you who 
are modest and to be pitied, there are enough — 
others — drunk with success and no longer 
human. I say that you sow terror behind you 
with your discoveries of new maladies, with your 
descriptions, your prescriptions, and your men- 
aces. You belittle character in developing in 



160 Brieux 

gigantic proportions the fear of death. You 
poison all our pleasures, all our actions, all our 
life. 

The Doctor. Our patients do not say that. 

Bertry. Your patients! I know them! I 
know your faithful patient; he sweats fear 
from every pore; all wrapped up in flannel, 
like a race horse, he leads a shriveled and piti- 
able existence. He comes to you to find out 
how he is to eat, drink, sleep, and even love. 
You have invented the fear of microbes — 

The Doctor. It is no worse than the fear of 
hell! 

Bertry. No ! Fear for fear — I prefer that 
— for it has at times stopped evil, while your 
inventions have only helped to multiply egoists 
and rogues. 

The Doctor. Go on talking. Since the 
time of Moliere we have heard many others and 
many who are better. As far as this concerns 
Jean and Lucienne, it is useless to discuss it 
any longer. I refuse my consent to this union, 
that is all there is to it! 

Bertry. Very well! Then you shall your- 
self give your decision to the poor children. I 
haven't the heart to do it. 

The Doctor. Very well. 

[Bertry goes to the door at the left and brings 
in Lucienne and Jean] 



The Escape 161 

The Doctor. My children — 

Jean. You refuse? 

The Doctor. Yes. I am opposed to your 
marriage because I think that you two would 
be very unhappy. That is all I have to say. 

Jean. But we are absolutely convinced that 
the only means we have to escape from this ter- 
rible fatality that our parents have handed 
down to us, is to join our forces and fight 
against this evil. 

Lucienne. Yes, we fully believe that by 
this means we may possibly be happy. 

The Doctor. I refuse! 

Jean. [Softly] If you still refuse your con- 
sent you will immediately provoke the catastro- 
phe which you do not doubt will eventually 
happen. 

The Doctor. What do you mean by that? 

Jean. I swear by my parents to do what I 
have just suggested: If you do not consent I 
shall commit suicide! 

Bertry. Do you hear? Now do you still 
dare? 

Lucienne. Be merciful, uncle! 

The Doctor. [Looks at them very resolutely] 
I give in. But you will remember that I have 
done all in my power to prevent this union. I 
give in, but I do so only under threat! 

Lucienne. Jean! 



162 



Brieux 



Jean. Do not be afraid, Lucienne, we will 
triumph! I have never felt so strong before! 
The life that I refused this morning — the life 
at Ebreville, I now accept it. 

Lucienne. We will love each other! And 
with the strength of our love we will escape 
from this prison, in spite of you, my uncle; in 
spite of you, our gaoler! 

The Doctor. We shall see. 



CURTAIN. 



ACT II. 

A comer of the castle park at Ebreville. At 
the right, the steps leading up to the house; at the 
lefty the servants 9 entrance. 

Segard. [Alone] One hundred francs that 
I'd have given to the former manager — but 
since he stole, he might just as well have taken 
a hundred francs more, and I'm not hurting him 
any by keeping it — four hundred francs for 
the dairy promised by Madame Belmont — one 
hundred francs for repairs — that makes six 
hundred — so there are two hundred coming to 
me. 

[Jean appears on the steps with another farmer 
whom he is bidding good-bye. He goes out at 
rear, right, after saying: "Good day, Monsieur 
Belmont. 99 ] 

' Segard. How do, monsieur. You'll have 
to come and look at the farm. Madame Bel- 
mont promised us some repairs — you can ask 
her if she didn't. The roof'll be falling on our 
heads — 

Jean. [He is very gay during this entire 
scene] We'll see. 

Segard. The bad times is coming — the sea 
wind will rip it off as if it were a bit of straw. 

163 



164 Brieux 

It's not for me that I want it, it's for my wife 
and children. If any misfortune should come, 
Monsieur Jean — they'd make you pay more 
than it was worth, that's sure. 

Jean. All right, I'll look at it. 

Segard. Come with me, I have my rig. 

Jean. No, I haven't had anything to eat 
yet. I'll have just a bite and then I'll follow 
you. 

Segard. Then you'll not come? 

Jean. I'll be there as soon as you will. 

Segard. Sure? 

Jean. I promise you. Only you must be a 
little reasonable with my rabbits. 

Segard. Your rabbits ! — your rabbits ! — 
Get an expert, sir! Get an expert! They've 
been eating my wheat since the beginning of the 
season — on all of my land that borders on 
your woods — why one day the mayor even 
said to me, says he: "Have you finished with 
your reaping already, Segard?" 

Jean. But why do you sow right on that 
bit of land — just to make me pay you? 

Segard. Oh, monsieur! I'm not malicious, 
but it's the best bit of land I own. 

Jean. And why do you put buckwheat on 
the next field — to attract my pheasants? 

Segard. [Playing the fool] Buckwheat? 
Pheasants? Which pheasants? 



The Escape 165 

Jean. You know very well that buckwheat 
attracts them. 

Segard. Buckwheat attracts them — that's 
the first I have heard of it. But it's true they 
did eat my buckwheat; you made me think 
of it, and I really ought to make a claim on 
you. 

Jean. Ah, not really! 

Segard. No, I'll not do it — I'll not do it. 

Jean. My warden told me that you had 
killed six since the opening of the season. 

Segard. Six — six what? Six rabbits? 

Jean. Six pheasants. 

Segard. Six pheasants! I killed six 
pheasants! Ah, good Lord! — six pheasants! 
But what should I have done with them? 
Do you suppose that poor people like us know 
how to eat them beasts? Do you suppose that 
we've got teeth for them things? What should 
I have done with them? I'll not leave here 
until you tell me what I could have done with 
them. 

Jean. Oh, all right — all right. Will you 
sell me your two bits of land? 

Segard. The wheat and the buckwheat 
land? 

Jean. Yes. 

Segard. Oh, I couldn't do that, Monsieur 
Belmont. 



166 Brieux 

Jean. Why not? 

Segard. Because selling land brings bad 
luck. 

Jean. You sold that bit at Longpre. 

Segard. That's not the same thing — that 
came to me from my sister-in-law. 

[Jean bursts out laughing. At this moment 
Bertry and the doctor appear on the steps] 

Jean. So instead of getting rent I owe you 
money? 

Segard. It's not my fault, monsieur, it's 
the fault of them rabbits. Au revoir. [They 
shake hands] Au revoir, monsieur. What makes 
me feel bad though is about them six pheas- 
ants — because — the Segards, from father to 
son — there are not any more honest in the 
whole country. 

Jean. [Going to rear of stage with him] I 
know — and the rent? 

Segard. Well, look here — I gave one hun- 
dred francs to the manager — you said to, 
didn't you? 

Jean. What's that? 

[They go out left, talking. Bertry and the 
doctor come down from the house and cross the 
stage] 

Bertry. Well now! Isn't our friend Jean, 
whom you condemned to everlasting melancholy, 
gay enough? All that was needed to cure him 



The Escape 167 

was for him to forget your somber predictions, 
fill his lungs with good air, and become inter- 
ested in life in general. Ha! Your famous 
science — your infallible science — for once it is 
wrong! It's six months now since Jean and 
Lucienne were married, and see how happy they 
are! 

The Doctor. Hum? 

Bertry. Why you'd never recognize Jean 
again. He is intensely interested in his work 
as a gentleman farmer. Yesterday morning I 
saw him come in at nine o'clock after having 
had a long horseback ride; he was in radiantly 
good health and in the best of humor. 

The Doctor. Yes, Jean is certainly in better 
condition. He is happy and thinks that the 
whole world is. Out of door exercise has done 
him a world of good, but at heart he is still 
somber and jealous. 

Bertry. Oh! 

The Doctor. You haven't noticed anything, 
eh? Why, yesterday, at dinner: Lucienne was 
telling about her young neighbor, who came to 
pay her a visit when she was all alone; then 
Jean's face suddenly became clouded — 

Bertry. That's true! 

[Bertry again starts pacing up and down] 

Thr Doctor. And Lucienne is bored. 

Bertry. Oh! 



168 



Brieux 



The Doctor. Yes. At first she played the 
country manor lady, looking after the cultiva- 
tion of her grounds and her kitchen garden. 
She promised repairs to all of her farmers, and 
Jean had to control her generosity. Then, 
suddenly, she lost all interest in everything. 
She is bored. 

Bertry. You say that she is bored? The 
misfortune, the misfortune which we must fear 
more than all else, you understand me, is that 
she will attribute her state of tedium not to her 
idleness, but rather to her destiny; and since 
she will believe herself condemned in advance, 
she will not defend herself, she will not react as 
every other good woman would do in her 
position. And if she is ever defeated it will be 
because of the cursed ideas you have put in her 
head, and not on account of heredity. 

The Doctor. I wish I were wrong; but, 
sad to say, you see that the very things that 
have happened here only go to prove what I 
said. But I shall never see the final result! 

Bertry. What do you mean? 

The Doctor. I haven't much longer to live. 

Bertry. Oh, come now. I thought that 
you were feeling better. 

The Doctor. The pain returns and gets 
worse every night. 

Bertry. Just what do you feel? 



The Escape 169 

The Doctor. All of a sudden, without any 
premonitory symptoms, I feel a terrible pain 
around my heart. Then the sensation of im- 
mediate death. These symptoms make me 
think of a known malady, but other symptoms 
again throw me entirely off the track. Once 
the crisis is over, I fall into a remarkable physi- 
cal and mental depression; then, when circula- 
tion is reestablished I am again the same as 
before my attack, with all my will power, in- 
telligence — 

Bertry. What do you do for it? 

The Doctor. Nothing. If I only dared 
consult Dr. Richon. 

Bertry. But why don't you? 

The Doctor. He would think that I was 
making fun of him. And then, — but let's not 
talk of it any longer; nothing irritates me more 
than to have to think of it. A physician must 
never be ill. His patients are such egoists and 
such fools that they lose all confidence in him 
after he has once been ill. They want to cry 
out to him: ^Cure yourself, healer!" With 
absurd logic they reason that if we do not know 
how to relieve ourselves we are ignoramuses. 
I have a patient here in Ebreville who has the 
same sickness that I have. In some way he 
guessed that I too was ill. And you cannot 
imagine with what ferocity he asks me for news. 



170 



Brieux 



He observes me with mad attention; he tries 
to guess from my face whether I am a little 
better, in order to know whether I have dis- 
covered something for myself by which he can 
profit. 

Bertry. I know who it is: it's Monsieur 
Brinvillard. 

The Doctor. You are right. Some time 
ago I had a period of relief from my complaint. 
Wanting to comfort him I told him that I had 
really found a new remedy for his ailment. He 
believed it, the fool, he believed it! And he 
had two weeks of comfort, while I never suf- 
ered so much during my whole life as I did 
then. When he found it out, he left me. 

Bertry. He has changed physicians three 
times since then. He has also consulted a 
homeopathist. Do you know what he is doing 
now? 

The Doctor. No. 

Bertry. He is consulting a sort of quack, a 
healer, a shepherd from the districts, called pere 
Guernoche. 

The Doctor. [Smiling] He was sure to 
come to that. 

[They go out at rear. Rosalie has entered at 
the left. She sets the table. Jean enters from 
the left] 



The Escape 171 

Jean. Ah, Rosalie, so the manager left all 
the farms in ruins? 

Rosalie. You must not listen to the farm- 
ers, monsieur ■ — they are all thieves. 

Jean. And madame — is she up yet? 

Rosalie. I think so. She is getting dressed. 

Jean. Very well! Lucienne! Lueienne! come 
down, you lazy bones! 

[The window opens and Lueienne appears] 

Lucienne. What's the matter? 

Jean. I am starved — ■ are you coming down? 

Lucienne. Yes, immediately. [She disap- 
pears] 

Jean. Is the tea ready? 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. 

Jean. And my soup? 

Rosalie. [Laughing] I cannot get used to 
seeing you eat soup in the morning just like a 
real farmer. 

Jean. But I am one, Rosalie, I am one. 
And some sausage, eh? with good fresh butter. 
I've been up, you know, since six o'clock. 
[Seeing Lucienne on the steps] I am not like 
madame — who does not come down until ten 
o'clock — 

Lucienne. What do I do? 

Jean. Good morning, my dear. 

Lucienne. Good morning. 

[They kiss each other. Rosalie goes out, but 



172 Brieux 

appears off and on during the following scene] 

Jean. Sit down — let's hurry ! 

[He sits on the left side of the table, Lucienne 
opposite] 

Lucienne. You are still in a hurry? 

Jean. I should think so. Pere Segard is 
waiting for me. [To Rosalie, who is pouring 
Lucienne *s tea] Tell them to hitch up the buggy 
immediately. 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. [She goes] 

Lucienne. Let us go for a horseback ride. 

Jean. Impossible, my dear. 

Lucienne. Ah! 

Jean. I promised Segard. The roof may 
fall on their heads any day, you know! And 
then I'm going to lose a day anyway when the 
Grandpres come. 

Lucienne. They have written that they are 
not coming. 

Jean. Perhaps they are ill? 

Lucienne. No. They do not want their 
"young ladies" to come into contact with me. 
A propos of I don't know what, I heard 
Monsieur Grandpre the other day cite the 
proverb: "Like mother, like daughter." 

Jean. You silly girl, you're getting false 
notions into your head. 

Lucienne. No. Only I think of what my 
uncle said. 



The Escape 173 

Jean. Oh, nonsense! But since they are not 
coming I shall profit by that fact and go to 
Rouen to see a reaping-machine binder that I 
have heard about. 

Lucienne. You ought to take a rest. 

Jean. Rest! But I am taking a rest while 
I am doing these things. You see, when one 
takes up agriculture one has not a minute to 
oneself. And it is so good to have something 
to do, to feel that one is really living. One is 
either happy, or one is hungry. Ah, here is 
Rosalie! [Rosalie has entered with some soup] 
Look and see how appetizing it is. And it 
smells so good! 

Rosalie. You eat with relish, monsieur. 
[A pause] When one is very tired, a small 
bottle of wine added to this soup is very good. 
— I am just mentioning it to you! Good wine, 
of course! [Jean and Lucienne laugh] Don't 
you want some? 

Jean. No thank you, Rosalie. 

[Rosalie leaves] 

Rosalie. [As she goes out, aside] What a 
shame! And I wanted to go to the wine cellar 
myself. 

Lucienne. [Looking at Jean in a friendly 
manner] You are enjoying it? 

Jean. Heavens, I am hungry as a wolf! 
Do you know what I have done this morning. — 



174 Brieux 

First, I walked to the Fonds-de-Chaux, then, to 
Charpentier's; from there I came back to San- 
ville, from Sanville to the Quartre-Chemins; I 
was back here at nine, and saw my farmers. 
Today is Saint Michel. Did you know that? 

Lucienne. No. Haven't the Paris papers 
come? 

Jean. No, but you'll find the Dieppe Look- 
out and the Agricultural Progress on my table. 

Lucienne. Thank you. Do you have to 
do all these things yourself? 

Jean. I should think so! And besides, I 
adore it! 

Lucienne. As a matter of fact — you leave 
me quite alone. — And it becomes a bit tire- 
some. 

Jean. But why, you are not bored! We 
are very happy. Aren't we? 

Lucienne. [Dreaming] Yes. 

Jean. Ah, that's better. Good butter — 
a bit of sausage — and then for the road again ! 
I was quite tired out! 

Lucienne. Why didn't you ride Poulette? 

Jean. She is lame — I think I'd like a bi- 
cycle. 

Lucienne. Ah, yes. Buy one for me, too, 
will you? 

Jean. To make up for the fact that the 



The Escape 175 

Grandpres would not trust their daughter to us! 

[A pause] 

Lucienne. Don't you miss Paris at all? 

Jean. Not at all! Do you? 

Lucienne. [Without conviction] No. Per- 
haps — I should like to receive a little more 
company here — only — [with a smile] you are 
so jealous! 

Jean. That's true — but that is because I 
love you! so much! so much! 

Lucienne. Yes. 

[A servant enters from the rear] 

The Servant. There are two bicyclists out- 
side and a lady in a carriage who want to see 
you. 

Lucienne. Didn't they tell you their names? 

The Servant. I forgot to ask them. 

Jean. [Disappointed, rising] It's Paul de 
Maucour and his wife, and Madame de Catteni- 
eres, I'll wager! I've a good mind to have the 
maid tell them that we are not at home. 

Lucienne. Oh, why? 

Jean. Paul irritates me with his — 

Lucienne. Some more jealousy! 

Jean. You are right, I am a fool! Then 
you'd like to see them? 

Lucienne. Heavens, yes — and besides — 
perhaps it isn't they at all. 

Jean. I'm quite sure it is. [To the servant] 



176 Brieux 

Did you notice whether there was a lady on one 
of the bicycles? 

The Servant. I think so, but I am not 
quite certain. 

Jean. I'll go see. 

[He goes out with the servant. Lucienne re- 
mains a moment alone; she stands there dreaming. 
Jean, the de Maucours, and Mme. de Cattenieres 
enter. Paul and his wife come in with their bi- 
cycles, and are in riding costume. Mme. de 
Cattenieres wears a summer gown.] 

Lucienne. It is you! Gn, what a nice sur- 
prise. 

Alice. How are you? 

[Jean takes her bicycle and leans it against 
the wall] 

Lucienne. And you? [They embrace] You 
come from Dieppe? 

Alice. Yes. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. It was I who per- 
suaded them to come. They were escorting 
me in the English buggy. It [is charming. [To 
Jean] You have a superb view! 

Paul. That is just what I was saying to 
him. 

Jean. You are not going away immediately, 
are you? 

Paul. No. 



The Escape 177 

Jean. Then let me take your bicycle for 
you. 

Paul. Slow now — slow now. Not in the 
sun. 

Jean. Here, I've put it in the shade. 

Lucienne. [To Paul.] We have often 
thought of you. I said to myself: " Won't 
they come?" 

Alice. [From the other side of the stage] I 
could not make Paul decide to come. 

Paul. [Softly to Lucienne] Do not listen to 
her; we almost had to drag her here by force. 
— [To Jean] I saw a buggy all harnessed in 
front of your gate. You were going out? 

Jean. Yes — to see one of my tenants — 
just a little way from here. 

Paul. He has tenants! 

Jean. Would you like to come with me? 

Paul. On my wheel? Are the roads 
pretty? 

Jean. Superb — and I have a pacer who'll 
leave you way behind on the road. 

Paul. Leave me behind on the road! We'll 
see about that! 

Jean. Come — we'll be back by luncheon 
time. 

Lucienne. That's right. Go on. The three 
of us will chat while you are gone. 

Paul. Let's go! 



178 Brieux 

[He takes his bicycle, and goes out with Jean] 

Lucienne. I am really so glad to see you 
again ! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You are pleasantly 
situated here — a beautiful view. 

Lucienne. Yes, don't you think so? When 
it's clear we can see the ocean, there, beyond 
Saint-Martin's steeple. 

Alice. Really? 

Lucienne. And all the land up to the woods 
belongs to us and connects with the park. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. That ought to 
bring in a lot. 

Lucienne. Last year everything suffered a 
great deal on account of the droughts. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Why don't they 
water the land — ■ as they do the boulevards? 

Lucienne. You're fooling. But let's sit 
down. [They sit around the table] Tell me 
about Paris. Is there anything new? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Not a thing has 
happened since Dr. La Belleuse's affair. 

Lucienne. What was that? 

Mme de Cattenieres. What was what? 

Lucienne. Why, what you were just talk- 
ing about. 

Alice. You don't know? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Of course Lucienne 
knows. 



The Escape 179 

Lucienne. But I really do not. 

Alice. She doesn't know! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. It's not possible! 

Lucienne. On my oath! 

Alice. With Madame Longuyon. 

Lucienne. I know nothing about it. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Well, my dear, at 
Paris and Dieppe you'd be looked upon as some 
sort of a phenomenon. 

Lucienne. But tell me about it. 

Alice. You know that La Belleuse was 
Madame Longuyon's physician and friend. 

Lucienne. Yes. 

Alice. Well, La Belleuse, jealous, forbade 
Monsieur Longuyon — 

Lucienne. Oh! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Exactly. 

Lucienne. And Longuyon? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. He did as he was 
told. 

Lucienne. [Laughing] Lord, that is really 
funny. 

Alice. But wait, wait! [To Mme. de 
Cattenieres] You, my dear, you can tell the 
rest better than I can. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. One fine day, Ma- 
dame Longuyon — 

Lucienne. The situation is extremely inter- 
esting — for this dear friend — 



180 Brieux 

[Alice and Mme. de Cattenieres burst out 
laughing] 

Alice. [Rising] Exquisite! Adorable! 

Lucienne. What do you mean? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You do not know 
how truly you speak. 

Lucienne. Really? 

Alice. Isn't it delightful to live in a city 
where such things happen? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. One can well say 
that there is just one Paris! 

Alice. But didn't you really know about it? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Tell us the truth. 

Lucienne. I knew nothing about it. 

Alice. But how do you exist, my dear, how 
do you exist? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You see a lot of 
people? 

Lucienne. No one. The poor country 
squires around here are very straight laced. 

Alice. But what do you do during the 
whole blessed day? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Lucienne spends it 
with her husband. 

Lucienne. No. Jean attends to his affairs. 

Alice. And you don't get bored? 

Lucienne. No. 

Alice. Do you realise that you are an ab- 
solute heroine? 



The Escape 181 

Mme. db Cattenieres. When are you com- 
ing to the city? 

Lucienne. We may go to Paris tomorrow 
or the day after — just for two days. My uncle 
is expecting his nomination as commander any 
time now, and he will invite his colleagues 
who intend giving him his insignia. There will 
probably be dancing. Dr. La Belleuse has re- 
mained in Paris to arrange everything. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. That is the kind 
of thing he can do. I was asking when you 
were returning for good. 

Lucienne. We do not intend to at all. 

Alice. You are going to spend the winter 
here? 

Lucienne. Why not? 

Alice. Well, my dear, I should not like to 
be in your place. You might as well bury 
yourself immediately. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Looking about] It's 
evidently very nice here, but a gilded cage is a 
cage nevertheless. 

Alice. And you do not complain? 

Lucienne. I am very happy. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Very happy! You'll 
be back in Paris within three months, whether 
your husband wants to or not. 

Lucienne. Why do you think that I cannot 
remain here? 



182 Brieux 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Because — because, 
pretty as you are, with the worldly tastes that 
you have, it would be impossible for you to 
waste your youth out here in the country. 

Lucienne. But if I like it very much? 

Alice. [Rising] Oh, come now. You can 
never convince me that this sort of life would 
satisfy you indefinitely — you above all. 

Lucienne. [Dreaming] I, above all! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. You are no more 
suited for this kind of life than I would be for 
a tavern waitress. Dr. Bertry was right. 

Lucienne. [Still dreaming] Yes. 

Alice. I never would have believed that you 
would have stayed here for six months in suc- 
cession. 

Lucienne. Heavens, you know there are 
days when I'd give a lot to be able to see the 
omnibuses of La Madeleine or the pastry-shops 
of the Rue Royal. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Of course! But 
what sort of an odor do I smell? 

Alice. I don't smell anything. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. But surely! [Point- 
ing to Jeans dish] Is that it? Oh, horrors! 

Alice. Why yes — you are right. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Why, it's almost 
poisonous! 

Alice. The garlic! 



The Escape 183 

Mme. de Catteniebes. I was just saying 
to myself: " But where can that odor be coming 
from?' 5 

Lucienne. [Very much confused, stands with- 
out moving] Jean has just eaten here. 

Alice. Do you mean to say that he eats 
that? And what was there inside? 

Mme. de Catteniebes. Soup — 

Alice. Is that so, Lucienne? 

Lucienne. Rosalie! Rosalie! 

Rosalie. Yes, madame? 

Lucienne. Can you never learn to be tidy: 
I told you before to clear the table. 

Rosalie. But no, madame. 

Lucienne. Don't talk now, but take the 
things away. 

[Rosalie clears the table] 

Mme. de Catteniebes. Ha! that Jean! 
And I knew him as such a poetic, delicate, 
ethereal person! 

Lucienne. He has got it into his head that 
he wants to eat as the farmers do. I have told 
him a thousand times that I think it is ab- 
solutely ridiculous. 

Alice. You must let him do it — so long as 
he does not ask you to share it with him. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. When one is in 
love — 

Lucienne. [Laughing a forced laugh] Ah! 



184 Brieux 

Ah! one does not have to go as far as that. 
Shall we go in? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. I was just going to 
ask the same question. 

Lucienne. Come in, and I'll show you your 
rooms. 

[They go up the steps; Lucienne is in the rear. 
Once her friends are inside she sighs deeply and 
follows them] 

Rosalie. She never told me to clear the 
table. 

The Doctor. [Enters] Rosalie! Has Ma- 
dame Belmont gone out? 

Rosalie. No, monsieur! 

[The doctor goes into the house. Guernoche 
enters.] 

Guernoche. Here I am, just the same. 
But I'm positively anxious — that gentleman 
who came in before me, who was he? Was it 
the doctor? 

Rosalie. Yes. Come quickly and see 
Justin. 

Guernoche. Anxious as I am, I'd rather 
not. 

Rosalie. The doctor is not as bad as that. 
And besides I have money — 

Guernoche. Yes! I feel weak — abso- 
lutely weak. 

Rosalie. I know what'll fix you! Come 



The Escape 185 

in. Just the same — when I think that you're 
nothing but a shepherd — 

Guernoche. Yes, and? 

Rosalie. And that you are cleverer than a 
doctor who has been studying more than twenty 
years. 

Guernoche. Cleverer — cleverer — no — but 
just as clever, positively. 

[She makes him enter at the right. Dr. 
Bertry appears on the steps with some medical 
magazines in his hand] 

The Doctor. Rosalie? 

Rosalie. Monsieur? 

The Doctor. Madame has company? 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. 

The Doctor. Couldn't you have told me? 
You know very well that I do not like to be 
with all those gossips. Didn't a telegram 
come? 

Rosalie. No, monsieur. 

The Doctor. You are quite sure? 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. 

The Doctor. Who was that man who just 
went in? 

Rosalie. He is — you saw him, monsieur? 

The Doctor. Who is it? 

Rosalie. It was the gardener. 

The Doctor. What do you mean? I just 
met the gardener at the gate. 



186 Brieux 

Rosalie. Well! It is pere Guernoche. 

The Doctor. Pere Guernoche? 

Rosalie. The physician, not the shepherd. 

The Doctor. What physician? What shep- 
herd? 

Rosalie. I'll tell you everything, monsieur, 
because I see that there is no other way — 
Justin — 

The Doctor. Is dead? 

Rosalie. No, monsieur, he is cured. 

The Doctor. What do you know about it? 

Rosalie. He is here. 

The Doctor. Justin is here! 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. 

The Doctor. I forbade you to bring him, 
didn't I? 

Rosalie. But he wanted to come so badly. 

The Doctor. And he stood the trip? 

Rosalie. We took an assistant, and I also 
had a pillow along. 

The Doctor. What a foolish thing you did! 
He might have died twenty times during the 
trip. 

Rosalie. But he didn't die at all. 

The Doctor. That makes no difference. 
When I told you that he should not make the 
trip you should have left him in Paris. 

Rosalie. But — since he is cured. 

The Doctor. Who treated him? 



The Escape 187 

Rosalie. Pere Guernoche. 

The Doctor. The shepherd? 

Rosalie. Yes, monsieur. 

The Doctor. [Furious] It's discouraging to 
have anything to do with such stupid people! 
That's a fine thing! the best doctors in Paris 
tell you that your husband is lost, and you put 
him in the hands of a charlatan, an ignorant 
and stupid sorcerer. 

Rosalie. I know very well that pere Guer- 
noche is not as clever as those other doctors. 

The Doctor. Then why did you entrust 
Justin's life to him? You do not seem to un- 
derstand that we have studied, while your pere 
Guernoche can hardly read ox write. 

Rosalie. He can't read at all. 

The Doctor. There, you see! 

Rosalie. But he cured Justin just the same. 

The Doctor. I'll have to see him to believe 
it. 

Rosalie. If you will come in, monsieur. 

The Doctor. To find myself face to face 
with doctor Guer — with pere Guernoche — 
Never ! 

Rosalie. But you see he really did cure my 
husband! Justin eats and drinks now like 
every one else, and he is beginning to get up. 

The Doctor. And how did he cure him, 
this pere Guernoche? 



188 Brieux 

Rosalie. I'll tell you how it was, monsieur. 
By giving him some of his elixir and elec- 
tricity — because the maladies, he says — 

The Doctor. [Bursts out laughing] That's 
enough — I'll believe all when I see Justin. 

[At this moment Justin appears, opening the 
door for pere Guernoche] 

Rosalie. Here you are, monsieur; here is 
my husband — with pere Guernoche. You can 
see that he is cured. 

[Justin immediately goes into the house again] 

The Doctor. By Jove, it's true — [To pere 
Guernoche] Come over here, you! 

Guernoche. Excuse me, I'm in a great 
hurry, if you'll excuse me, doctor. 

The Doctor. Oh, come now! I asked you 
to come here. Leave us, Rosalie. [To Guer- 
noche] Well, my dear colleague! 

Guernoche. What's that you're calling me, 
monsieur? 

The Doctor. Do you know what your trade 
will lead you to? 

Guernoche. The trade of being a shepherd 
— that doesn't bring me in enough to pay my 
rent — positively. 

The Doctor. I'm not speaking of that, I'm 
speaking of the other thing. 

Guernoche. Oh, you want to know when 
I'm going to build my barn? 



The Escape 189 

The Doctor. Now stop your fooling. 
You cure sick people, my gay fellow, don't you? 

Guernoche. I don't cure 'em, they cure 
themselves. 

The Doctor. What do you do to your 
patients? 

Guernoche. Practically nothing. They must 
want to be cured, and once they think about 
it, it's all done. 

The Doctor. [Aside] He has more sense 
than he thinks. So you only cure nervous 
complaints? 

Guernoche. I take charge of no one, no 
one, positively. 

The Doctor. Don't finesse, now. You are 
making fun of me with that foolish air you put 
on. 

Guernoche. I! My Lord! my Lord! 
You tell me that at my age — at seventy years 
and three months! 

The Doctor. It may cost you very dear in 
the end. 

Guernoche. Very dear? 

The Doctor. Yes. A fine and jail, — you 
know it very well. 

Guernoche. Not at all. Ah! You mean 
to say that I practice medicine? 

The Doctor. Of course! 

Guernoche. You are wrong. The physi- 



190 Brieux 

cian gives medicines — I give nothing — ■ I look 
at them and they are cured. Is it forbidden to 
look at people? 

The Doctor. No. 

Guernoche. Well then? 

The Doctor. Who gave you the idea of 
looking at them in order to cure them, as you 
put it? 

Guernoche. Well, it's this way. I was a 
shepherd and cared for Monsieur de Grandpre's 
sheep. He lives over there, in back of the 
Laurents, whose father was mayor of fibreville. 
You know, on the road up to Hautmont? 

The Doctor. Go on, go on. 

Guernoche. They used to accuse me of 
sorcery, and so on and so forth — ■ because I'm 
not talkative, on account of my being alone 
from morning till night up there on the hills 
with my sheep — and that doesn't make a per- 
son very talkative — 

The Doctor. Yes, yes. 

Guernoche. One day, when I was coming 
back to the house I saw Baffieu's daughter on 
the road. She was writhing and howling as if 
she were possessed of the devil. I looked at 
her, she looked at me, and she got scared. I 
cried as loud as I could: "Be quiet!" and she 
was cured. After that when there were other 
sick people they were always brought to me. 



The Escape 191 

Not wanting to get into a spat with them I did 
what I could to cure 'em, and they were all 
cured, positively. I did like this to 'em — 
[He makes a few passes with his hands] — with- 
out knowing — just to do something. And one 
day when I was at Rouen I saw a magician, and 
then I understood that I cured by electricity. 
There you are! 

The Doctor. And not one of your patients 
has ever died? 

Guernoche. Not one, provided that I didn't 
give 'em any medicine — 

The Doctor. And why are they cured? 

Guernoche. Well, you know — I've thought 
it all over with my sheep out in the fields — and 
I've decided that it's electricity, my electricity, 
— because, you see, there are two kinds of 
maladies: when one's humors and one's blood 
get mixed, and when one's blood turns into 
water; you know that as well as I do, don't 
you? You've seen how foolish people are when 
they're sick. 

The Doctor. Of course! 

Guernoche. And it's only us that knows 
it, positively. 

The Doctor. Enough now! Leave me 
alone. Go now. And don't let me find you 
here again! 

Guernoche. I'll do what I can, doctor! 



192 Brieux 

[He moves away] 

The Doctor. [Aside] Suggestion. The 
zouave Jacob. [To Guernoche] Tell me, have 
you ever cured people who have wounds, 
tumors? 

Guernoche. I've never seen any. 

The Doctor. And if a person thus afflicted 
came to you? 

Guernoche. If one came? [He reflects 
deeply, looking at the doctor] If one of 'em came, 
I'd send him to you, doctor, positively. 

[He leaves] 

Lucienne. [Coming down the steps] How do 
you do, uncle? 

The Doctor. Have you a telegram for me? 

Lucienne. No! 

The Doctor. That's queer! My nomina- 
tion must have appeared in the official list! 

Lucienne. Do you know that Madame de 
Cattenieres is here? 

The Doctor. Yes. 

Lucienne. She entreats you to come and 
see her. 

The Doctor. A consultation in the country. 
Will she never leave me in peace? 

Lucienne. Oh, come now, you cannot avoid 
her — now go to her with good grace. 

The Doctor. She ought to see pere Guer- 
noche. 



The Escape 193 

Lucienne. Don't say that; he could cure 
her. 

The Doctor. Ah! — so you too, you too 
believe in pere Guernoche? 

Lucienne. Why of course — he cured Jus- 
tin — 

The Doctor. [Furious] He cured Justin! 
He cured Justin! They'll deafen me with that 
cry! He cured Justin! Do you know why he 
cured Justin? Because Justin was not ill! 

Lucienne. But you had given him up. 

The Doctor. Possibly, but he was not ill. 
He had an idea that he was ill, and he thought 
of it so much that he would have died from it. 
But there was nothing the matter with him. 
If there had been anything the matter with 
Justin you can be very sure that your pere 
Guernoche could never have cured him. It is 
purely suggestion. Justin got the idea into his 
head that he was ill, Guernoche made him be- 
lieve that he was cured, and that's the way pere 
Guernoche cured him. And I do not want to 
hear any more about it, do you understand! 
Why, it doesn't hold water! [He puts his hand 
to his heart] I see I am wrong to work myself 
into a fury. [He sits down] 

Lucienne. I wanted to ask your advice 
about something — about my health — I feel 
nervous — crushed — sad without any reason. 



194 Brieux 

The Doctor. Make Jean take you back to 
Paris. 

Lucienne. He wants me to remain here. 

The Doctor. He is wrong. 

Lucienne. Don't you think that with a 
little will power I could overcome my malady 
— which is, above all, a moral malady? 

The Doctor. Will power! — ■ So you are an- 
other who thinks that we have a little spring 
in us that we can press on at will, and which 
allows us to modify ourselves? No, no. We 
have no power over ourselves. We are nothing 
but results and, when we think that we are 
acting from our inner impulse we are only giv- 
ing way to a stronger impulse than all others. 
Return to Paris and you will feel better. [He 
rises and walks up the steps. He stops, out of 
breath] I cannot go up more than four steps at 
a time now without stopping! [He sighs deeply 
and enters the house] 

Lucienne. "We are nothing but results!" 
Oh, I am so bored! 

[A moment later Paul enters from the rear] 

Paul. [Coming up to Lucienne] How do 
you do! 

Lucienne. Ah! You frightened me! You're 
back already! 

Paul. Yes. 

Lucienne. Alone? You could not keep up? 



The Escape 195 

Paul. Keep up? Why, I would have 
beaten Jean if a part of my bicycle hadn't 
broken. 

Lucienne. You have my deepest sympathy. 

Paul. You are too good. But what are 
you thinking of? You are not very gay! 

Lucienne. You are mistaken. I was here 
alone. 

Paul. All alone? 

Lucienne. All alone! [A pause] 

Paul. You say that you pity me, Lucienne; 
but I think it's rather you who needs the pity. 

Lucienne. I? 

Paul. Yes. 

Lucienne. Why? 

Paul. Because you are not happy. 

Lucienne. But — 

Paul. I know it. 

Lucienne. I love Jean — he loves me. 

Paul. Yes, he loves you — but not enough. 
He spends more time with his farmers than 
with you. Ah, Lucienne! we two would have 
been so happy! 

Lucienne. [Troubled] We two? 

Paul. Yes, Alice is not the sort of a wife 
that I should have. Ah, if it could only be 
done all over again! And to think that I loved 
you so! 

Lucienne. No, Paul, you never loved me! 



196 Brieux 

Paul. Oh yes, I swear that I loved you! 
It is you who never loved me! 

Lucienne. [Forgetting herself] I? 

Paul. [Approaching her] Lucienne! 

Lucienne. [Collecting herself] Come, my 
friend, let us not talk of the past. All that is 
over and nothing can be done now. Besides, 
you are mistaken. I am very happy with 
Jean — because I have enough sense to under- 
stand that Jean has other things to do than to 
He at my feet and sigh deeply all day long. 
Let's not think of that any longer. Let us be 
friends, good friends, if you wish — and speak 
of something else — of bicycling. 

Paul. No! I want to tell you- — 

Lucienne. If you do not care to speak 
about bicycling I shall go. 

Paul. Very well. Ask me questions. 

Lucienne. Good! Do you find riding 
amusing? 

Paul. Yes. One has the sensation of speed, 
of a speed without fear, and one which can be 
controlled. The wind blows into one's face: 
one drinks in the air, becomes intoxicated. 
And it is so delicious. [Going to Alice's bi- 
cycle, he bends down] See, here is where my 
bicycle is broken. 

Lucienne. [Who has followed him] Is it 
hard to sit on? 



The Escape 197 

Paul. Not at all. Would you like to try? 

Lucienne. I so want to learn. 

Paul. Try it. 

Lucienne. No — I'd fall. 

Paul. You'll not fall — I'll hold you on. 
• Lucienne. If you should let go. 

Paul. But I won't. 

Lucienne. Oh, but besides, I'd have to have 
a costume like Alice's. 

Paul. That is not at all necessary — this is 
a lady's wheel. [He moves the pedals into po- 
sition] Put your foot there. No, not that 
one — the left one. Don't be afraid. I am 
holding you. There we are! \He is in front of 
the bicycle] 

Lucienne. Oh, it's fine — but don't let me 
go! 

Paul. You need not worry. [A pause] 

Lucienne. [Laughing] I'm afraid I'm go- 
ing to fall. 

Paul. Don't be frightened, I tell you. [A 
pause] 

Lucienne. [With a cry] Ah, I'm falling, 
I'm falling! [To save herself from falling she 
instinctively puts her arm around Paul's neck.] 
I beg your pardon — I felt myself going. I'm 
heavy, am I not? 

Paul. [His voice changed] No. It's be- 
cause you are frightened. Try it again. 



198 Brieux 

Lucienne. No. I want to get off. 

Paul. Why? You are all right. [A pause] 

Lucienne. [To Paul, who has his arm about 
her waist) You are holding me too tight. I 
want to get off. Paul, let me get off, I want 
to. 

Paul. [Softly] I love you, Lucienne. 

Lucienne. [Troubled] Ah, Paul, that is bad, 
that is bad. 

[She glides off into his arms] 

Paul. I love you, I love you! 

Lucienne. [Defending herself feebly] Let me 
go, Paul, let me go! 

Paul. I love you! 

[Lucienne is in a sort of swoon. Paul embraces 
her] 

Lucienne. Oh, this is wrong — this is very 
wrong — [She frees herself and stops Paul with a 
gesture] I beg you — 

Paul. Lucienne ! 

(They are a few paces apart, still ill at ease, 
when Jean enters] 

Lucienne. [Aside] My God, what have I 
done! what have I done! Well, he was right! 

Jean. [Happily] Ha, ha, Mr. bicyclist! You 
who were going to beat my horse. — [To Lu- 
cienne, laughing] Did he tell you what hap- 
pened? — Make fun of him a little, Lucienne. 

Lucienne. Really, Monsieur de Maucour. — 



The Escape 199 

[She tries to laugh and stops, not knowing what 
to say. But Jean does not notice it] 

Jean. [To Paul] It's too bad that you 
didn't come with me to see pere Segard — 

[While talking he looks from Lucienne to Paul. 
He notices that they are ill at ease. Gradually 
he becomes jealous and his gayety leaves him. A 
pause. He is waiting for a laugh that does not 
come] 

Jean. "The roof will be falling on the heads 
of my children." But do you know which 
roof was damaged? 

Lucienne. [Who has not been listening to 
him] No. Which one? 

Jean. [Very seriously] The stable. 

Lucienne. [Forcing a laugh] That's very 
funny. 

Jean. Isn't it? [To Lucienne] Doesn't that 
make you laugh? 

Lucienne. Why yes. 

Jean. After all — I see that you are not 
interested. [To Paul] Have you been here 
long? 

Paul. Yes. Your wife and I have been 
chatting, and now I see that I have hardly 
enough time to change for luncheon. Will you 
excuse me? 

[He goes out. Jean becomes again as he was 
in the first act] 



200 Brieux 

Jean. [After a pause] What were you talk- 
ing about — you — and Paul? 

Lucienne. Oh, nothing — of one thing and 
another. 

Jean. You have already forgotten? 

Lucienne. No. But it was of so little im- 
portance. 

Jean. Tell me just the same. 

Lucienne. We were speaking — of his wife 
— of Alice. 

Jean. And what else? 

Lucienne. And — that was all! 

Jean. [Looking at her] Truly? 

Lucienne. Why, you are putting me 
through a cross examination! 

Jean. Yes — yes, Lucienne — [A pause] Oh, 
come! I am not blind! I noticed that you 
were both ill at ease. And why? 

Lucienne. Ill at ease? 

Jean. Be frank, Lucienne. Tell me the 
truth. I want to know it — I ask your pardon 
for having spoken as I did. It was simply the 
old complaint. The sadness that I thought I 
had cured — and which does not exist. Above 
all, do not lie to me — above all, do not lie. 
He paid you some compliments. Answer me. 

Lucienne. Yes. 

Jean. You doubtless spoke of the past? 

Lucienne. Yes. 



The Escape 201 

Jean. And after that? — [A pause] Perhaps 
he took you in his arms, and, in spite of you, 
kissed you. [Lucienne nods. Jean becomes ex- 
cited] And you did not cry out? And you did 
not send him away? 

Lucienne. Pardon me, Jean — pardon me 
— I lost my head. I did not know where I 
was. For just a moment I was mad. 

Jean. [Laughing nervously] Ah! ah! A mo- 
ment of madness! That is your excuse, you 
women! At least have the courage to confess. 
Confess that you love him! 

Lucienne. No! 

Jean. You love him, I say! Weren't you 
to marry him? 

Lucienne. I do not love him! 

Jean. But why lie about it? Isn't it evi- 
dent? Didn't I see you two on the very day 
that I confessed my love for you? Didn't I 
see you speaking together? Didn't I see you 
smile when he whispered something in your ear, 
while he gazed at you tenderly all the while? 
And your hands! You do not dare to tell me 
that they have not held his secretly! You do 
not dare, because I have seen, I have seen! 
And when he came today didn't you suddenly 
become happy? Wasn't it you who made me 
receive him? Answer me! Who knows but 
what you were even expecting him? 



202 Brieux 

Lucienne. Jean, be careful of what you say! 
Do not accuse me, do not crush me. Perhaps 
I was a bit foolish; and I ask your pardon. 
Grant me this pardon without insisting any 
more. Help me, Jean, I beg you, help me! I 
am in the midst of a crisis: I do not know 
where I am going, I do not know where I shall 
be tomorrow. You can still save me, you can 
still save me. Help me! 

Jean. You are afraid of yourself! You con- 
fess it! You see that you confess it! 

Lucienne. Yes, it is true, I am afraid of 
myself. 

Jean. But you do not seem to understand 
that loving him would be your only excuse! 
If you did not love him what a woman you 
would be! 

Lucienne. My husband, have pity on me! 
Have pity on me, Jean! 

Jean. Go away! Leave me! All is broken! 
All is over ! Ah ! the fond dream — the fond 
dream that was! I now find myself the un- 
fortunate man I was before I married you. 
Married you! — I thought, that by the power 
of my love I could soften you, and make you a 
faithful and respectable wife; I thought that I 
could lift your heart high above these worldly 
flirtations, and you set yourself to this task with 
me! But instead of our purpose being ac- 



The Escape 203 

complished, if luck had not led me to discover 
your intrigue in the beginning, you would have 
lived this lie, and would have given me your 
kisses, and he would have given me his hand. 
You would have deceived me in a cowardly 
way! And when you were satiated with 
caresses you two would have laughed at me! 

Lucienne. [Crying out] Enough, Jean! 
enough! it is false! it is false! I love you! pity 
me! I love you! 

Jean. Ah, yes, you would have laughed! 
You would not have been the only ones, and I 
know very well what they would have said. 

Lucienne. [Taking his hands] What? 

Jean. That they were expecting it! 

Lucienne. [Stifling a cry] Ah! — [In a cold 
voice] Now all is over! You have pronounced 
the irreparable word, and you have killed our 
love! 

Jean. No, Lucienne, no, my wife! No! 
Forget, forget what I just said! I ask your 
pardon! You know you should forgive me — 
you know what an unhappy man I am, and how 
I have suffered my whole life! You ought to 
have pity for all my misery, Lucienne, and for- 
get, and forgive; I have always loved you and I 
make you suffer. My darling, I made you 
suffer; forgive me! forgive me! 

[He sobs and sits down at the table] 



204 Brieux 

Lucienne. [Impassively] I have nothing to 
forgive. You made clear the truth that I did 
not want to see. You were right, we were de- 
ceived, and I was wrong in thinking that I 
could love you. Ah! but I wanted to so badly, 
I wanted to with all the power I possessed; 
but I am not free, I am not free! I wanted to 
escape from myself, and I fell back heavily, and 
I am broken — I have been bored for quite 
some time now; I yearned for Paris, for the 
balls, the people; and I hoped that this ennui 
was only passing, but now I clearly see that it 
is my nature that is revolting, and just one un- 
expected contact was enough to make me defence- 
less against Paul, whom I no longer love. And 
it is not my fault, it is fatal! It is stronger 
than I, it is stronger than I! Yes, let us weep, 
Jean, let us weep! We are very unfortunate, 
very unfortunate! 

[They both weep] 

Jean. It is my fault, Lucienne! I should 
not have married you, since I could not love 
you as you wanted to be loved. But it is not 
my fault either. 

Lucienne. They told us, Jean! There are 
prisons from which there is no escape! — 
[Changing her voice] Well, since it is inevitable, 
since it was definite even before my birth, it is 



The Escape 205 

useless to struggle any longer! — and I too am 
going to be happy! 

[Dr. Bertry appears on the steps with a telegram 
in his hand] 

The Doctor. Jean! Lucienne! I have the 
telegram! My nomination! 

Lucienne. Ah yes! You have triumphed! 
You have triumphed! — completely! 

CURTAIN. 



ACT III. 

[A drawing room in Dr.Bertry's house in Paris. 
Jean is talking to Dr. Richon] 

Jean. La Belleuse stayed here to prepare for 
this celebration. As soon as Dr. Bertry re- 
ceived the telegram telling him of his nomina- 
tion, he left for Paris and asked Lucienne and 
me to accompany him. [La Belleuse has come 
in at the left. He mops his brow like a man 
who has just done some hard ivork, and finally 
sits down. He is wearing the Legion of Honor] 

Richon. [Softly to Jean] Here is Dr. La 
Belleuse. 

La Belleuse. [Who has sunk into a large 
armchair] Ouf! — Good evening, gentlemen. 
I can do no more, I can do no more. You 
cannot imagine how much trouble I had to 
get up this spontaneous manifestation of which 
Dr. Bertry is at this moment the object! 

[A short pause. Suddenly he trembles, rises, 
touches an electric bell. As no one appears im- 
mediately he rushes to the door at the left. The 
servant enters just at this time] 

La Belleuse. Where are the guests? 

The Servant. The gentlemen are in the 
small salon. 

206 



The Escape 207 

La Bellettse. For the giving out of the in- 
signia. Good. And the musicians? 

The Servant. They are here. 

La Belleuse. Good! We'll have to re- 
member to give them refreshments — and to 
tell the steward. Never mind, I'll do it my- 
self. [The servant goes out] I beg your pardon. 
I can do no more. This affair, this ball, 
organised in forty-eight hours — I can say it 
without false modesty — it is a tour de force. 
Provided that all goes w T ell! And there 
are so many people! [Going to the right] At 
first this affair was to be very select — just a 
few colleagues and intimate friends. But the 
master is so popular! All Paris wanted to be 
invited. The favored ones are going to have 
a surprise: Dr. Bertry is going to read frag- 
ments of his next communication to the Acad- 
emy, on the sovereignty of science. [Pointing 
carelessly to his button] You see I was included 
in the promotion — Dr. Bertry surprised me. 
I really do not prize it much. But it is for 
my patients. It is sure to have some effect 
on them. 

Richon and Jean. Congratulations! 

La Belleuse. Let's not speak of it. I 
only mentioned it because you were looking at 
it. This demonstration for Dr. Bertry is fine, 
isn't it? 



208 Brieux 

The Servant. [Entering] Dr. La Belleuse? 

La Belleuse. I'm coming. You see, I 
haven't a moment to myself! [He goes] 

Richon. Let us go on with the conversation 
which that fool interrupted. My poor Jean! 
You were saying? 

Jean. Lucienne followed her uncle here. I 
intended remaining in fibreville, but I could 
not. 

Richon. You know Paul de Maucour is 
invited. 

Jean. What difference does that make! He 
is not responsible for what happens; it is 
simply our destiny! 

Richon. And Dr. Bertry? 

Jean. He? He bother about us! He does 
not understand the seriousness of what has 
happened. He thinks it is simply a lover's 
quarrel. Besides, I did not want to insist, for 
fear of hearing him say: "I told you so!" 
which I guessed was on the tip of his tongue. 

Richon. Haven't you tried to explain things 
to your wife? 

Jean. Yes. But she did not want to listen 
to me. I have just seen her. She is gay, 
very gay. Do you understand? She is gay! 

Richon. Her mother's hereditary influence 
has been so impressed upon her mind that she 
has ended by believing it. She is convinced 



The Escape 209 

that she cannot be a virtuous woman, and the 
poor girl is trying to imitate her friends, Madame 
de Cattenieres and Alice Longuyon. 

[Lucienne is heard laughing outside] 

Jean. Listen to that! Listen to that laugh- 
ter! 

[Lucienne and Mme. de Cattenieres go across 
the stage] 

Lucienne. [In passing] And so it was La 
Belleuse who reconciled them. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. La Belleuse himself. 

Lucienne. That is delicious. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. My husband posi- 
tively wanted to give him a gift to prove his 
gratitude. 

[They laugh again, and go out] 

Jean. [Weeping, rises] My poor Lucienne! 
my poor Lucienne! She appears to me to be 
dead. 

Richon. Do not weep! Have courage! 
This gayety cannot last. 

[Fresh bursts of laughter are heard from Lu- 
cienne and Mme. de Cattenieres. La Belleuse 
enters with Morienval. Jean walks to the door 
through which Lucienne has passed. He remains 
there a moment, following her with his eyes, then 
he goes out] 

La Belleuse. Wonderful, this demonstra- 



210 Brieux 

tion, wonderful! You missed a Jot, my dear 
friend; didn't he, Morienval? 

Morienval. I should say so. 

La Belleuse. Astonishing — prodigious. 

Bertry. [Enters; to Richon] I am glad to 
see you, my dear doctor. I wanted to ask 
these gentlemen something, and I am glad that 
you too can give me your advice. Listen, 
gentlemen, all three of you are physicians; now 
answer me frankly: is it possible for a shep- 
herd, a village quack, a charlatan — call him 
what you will — would it be possible for him 
to cure patients whom physicians have given 
up as hopeless. 

Morienval. Never ! 

Richon. Who knows? 

Bertry. You have not given me your an- 
swer, La Belleuse? 

La Belleuse. No. 

Bertry. Because? 

La Belleuse. Because there is no answer to 
such a question. If an imbecile could succeed 
where physicians do not, I ask you what good 
are all our studies and degrees? 

Bertry. Then you think it is possible? 

La Belleuse. No. 

Morienval. No. 

Bertry. Well, it is possible just the same. 



The Escape 211 

There is in Ebreville a shepherd by the 
name of Guernoche. 

La Belleuse. Who cured Justin — yes, I 
know all about it. 

Bertry. Well? 

La Belleuse. Dr. Bertry explained it to 
me: there was nothing the matter with Justin. 

Morienval. There was nothing the matter 
with him. 

Bertry. And Brinvillard. Do you know 
Brinvillard? 

La Belleuse. Yes. 

Bertry. Was there anything the matter 
with him? 

Richon, Of course. 

La Belleuse. I know him. And your 
pere Guernoche will not cure him, I assure you. 

Bertry. It seems that he has cured him, 
just the same. 

La Belleuse. (Bursts out laughing] Oh, I 
beg you — do not get angry — don't be offended 
— but it is so funny. He cured Brinvillard! 

Morienval. [At the same time] He cured 
Brinvillard! 

La Belleuse. [Laughs again, then becomes 
serious] Do you know who took care of Brin- 
villard? [A pause] It was Dr. Bertry. [Tri- 
umphantly] Ah ! 

Bertry. Very well. But Brinvillard could 



212 Brieux 

not stand on his feet. And yesterday he was 
seen hunting. What do you say to that? 

La Belleuse. I say — I say that if I saw 
him myself I would not believe it. You must 
understand, my dear friend, that there are laws 
of nature; laws, do you understand? Laws that 
cannot be transgressed! 

Morienval. What would be the use of hav- 
ing any if they could be transgressed? 

La Belleuse. [To Richon] What do you 
think of it, my dear colleague? Of course, 
excepting Monsieur Bertry, who is perfectly 
sincere; but the others — those patients who 
have lost confidence in the knowledge of the 
best physicians — and who go and put them- 
selves in the hands of a shepherd — doesn't a 
silly thing like that revolt you? 

Richon. No. 

La Belleuse. No! 

Richon. [Kindly] No. Just think how 
much those poor people must suffer in order to 
go and beg a shepherd to give them a few words 
of hope! You call it foolishness? — perhaps — 
but it is done on account of pain, weakness, 
misery. And besides, we must find out, we 
do not know everything, you know. 

Bertry. You, Richon, you admit that a 
shepherd might have cured this man? 

Richon. Heavens, why not? 



The Escape 213 

La Belleuse. You say that! You have no 
faith then in our profession? 

Richon. I haven't much faith in medicine, 
that is true, and I'll tell you why I haven't — 
I could not save my only son from death when 
he was seventeen, sir, and — I swear — 

[Dr. Bertry enters. He is radiant. He wears 
the order of the commander around his neck] 

The Doctor. Well, now — what are all of 
you plotting there? You are right to isolate 
yourselves. There is such a crowd in the 
salon! I say crowd — and I am wrong. Am 
I not wrong? Tell me gentlemen, haven't I 
cause to be cotaiused? In diamonds — they 
have given me the orders set in diamonds! I 
really do not know where the pessimists live who 
deny fraternity and loyalty. It is really too 
beautiful, and my modest merits do not — I am 
all confused. And you can believe me, if you 
' will — of course, my nomination gives me a 
great deal of pleasure, I will not try to hide 
that; but what has moved me most of all has 
been the spontaneous manifestation of sympathy 
with which I have been — have been honored. 
Telegrams are coming from every corner of 
France. How many have we received since 
noon, La Belleuse? 

La Belleuse. Forty-two! 

The Doctor. Forty-two! His pocket is 



214 Brieux 

full of them — isn't it, La Belleuse? — Show 
them to the gentlemen — just for curiosity. 

[La Belleuse takes a package of telegrams out 
of his pocket] Look at these! [To La Belleuse] 
And what did you say the concierge told the 
butler about the telegraph office? 

La Belleuse. He was wagering that they 
would have to engage extra help. 

The Doctor. Extra help! The good 
people! [He gives La Belleuse the telegrams] 
Here, you keep these! [He gradually becomes 
ill at ease during the following] I assure you that 
this all is very, very nice — very nice — it is 
the reward of — it is the reward of forty years 
of uninterrupted study. I am — I am very 
very happy. [He places his hand on his heart 
and breathes hard] It is homage — a homage to 
medicine — [At the end of his strength] But 
leave me, I beg you. 

Bertry. What is the matter with you? 

The Doctor. [Pulling himself together] With 
me? Nothing. What do you think? There 
is nothing the matter. I only ask you — 

Richon. You are suffering — 

La Belleuse. You are ill, dear master — 

Morienval. Yes, you are ill — 

The Doctor. [Animated] 111 — I ill. You 
are mad; I ill! 



The Escape 215 

Bertry. Be calm — we all see that you are 
ill. 

The Doctor. You make me tired! I forbid 
you to say that, do you understand me? I ill! 
I am less ill than you are — yes, than you. 
Only you do not know it — I am in better 
health than you, La Belleuse; you will never 
live to be my age, I assure you — I do not 
know what has got into the three of you. [Re- 
assuming his composed air with a great effort, 
and picking his words] I was telling you that 
the manifestation with which I have been hon- 
ored is a homage to the whole medical world, 
a homage to science. And as the excitement 
had tired me a bit I asked you to leave me. 
But do not say that I am ill or suffering. I 
am neither suffering nor ill, do you hear? 
There now. [With a smile] Leave me. La 
Belleuse — see who is there. 

La Belleuse. Yes, dear master. [To 
Richon, as he goes out] Now I shall have to 
receive congratulations, and it is so tiresome. 

Bertry. Is it over? 

The Doctor. Quite. 

Bertry. Listen. I have something to say 
to you. You promise not to get angry? You 
know Brinvillard — 

The Doctor. Yes. 

Bertry. He is cured. 



216 Brieux 

The Doctor. [Looking at him] By pere 
Guernoche? 

Bertry. Yes. 

The Doctor. Well? 

Bertry. Well. You promise not to get 
angry? 

The Doctor. I trust you are not going to 
ask me to be treated by your village quack. 

Bertry. Put yourself in my place. Some 
one who was suffering from the same malady 
that you were is cured. I do not bother about 
who the healer was, whether he has degrees or 
not. I am telling you this because I love you 
and I do not want you to suffer. You can at 
least do that for me, your brother. 

The Doctor. Once for all, leave me alone. 
— You are very kind, but leave me alone. [A 
pause. Friendly] Ah, I recognize you only 
too well, you false sceptic! You are all alike. 
You do not believe in our science, but you 
believe in pere Guernoche's secrets! You do 
not dare to say now that physicians are not 
indispensable to humanity. [Serious] But let 
us not speak of that any longer. Listen to 
me. Even if I were certain that your pere 
Guernoche could cure me — you understand: 
even if I were certain — I would refuse to see 
him. 

Bertry. That is pure stubborness. 



The Escape 217 

The Doctor. No, it is dignity, professional 
dignity. 

[La Belleuse enters. He is holding his sides 
in a fit of laughter] 

La Belleuse. Mr. Bertry — I have a good 
one. Some news that I have just heard. I 
was looking for you in order to tell you about 
it. 

Bertry. Well, tell me. 

La Belleuse. I — ha, ha, ha! — Your Brin- 
villard — cured by pere Guernoche. Oh, no — 
ha, ha, ha! — I cannot. Well, he is dea-a-a-a- 
a-d! 

The Doctor. Ha, ha, ha! — 

La Belleuse. [Still laughing] In coming 
back from the hunt — at his house. All of a 
sudden — psst ! — and it was all over. [He 
laughs so that the tears stream down his face] 

The Doctor. [To his brother] You are not 
laughing? 

Bertry. You are like two beasts! One 
would think that you were furious because he 
escaped you. 

The Doctor. [Who has stopped laughing] 
Really. It is nothing to laugh about. [As if 
to himself] He died suddenly — 

La Belleuse. I beg your pardon. Only 
I came to look for you because a new delega- 
tion has arrived. I was just informed — 



218 Brieux 

The Doctor. A new delegation? 

La Belleuse. Yes, with a discourse — 

[Lucienne, Mme. de Cattenieres, and Mme. 
Longuyon enter in the order named] 

Lucienne. Uncle — they are looking for you 
everywhere. A delegation — 

Mme. de Cattenieres. My dear doctor, 
you are hiding yourself. 

Mme. Longuyon. They are the physicians 
from Dieppe. 

Lucienne. Do you want to have them come 
in here? 

The Doctor. No, no. Cojne with me, La 
Belleuse. 

[The ladies are left alone] 

Lucienne. This will be a good place to wait 
until the end of all the speeches, and we can 
chat here comfortably. I am so glad to be with 
you both. If you like, we three can be good 
friends. 

Mme. Longuyon. Charmed, I am sure. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. And I too! 

Lucienne. [Very nervous] What were we 
saying? The poor woman must have gone 
through terrible anxiety. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Why? 

Lucienne. Heavens. It seems 10 me that 
one ought not to live so. The fear of being 
surprised, the tales that have to be invented, 



The Escape 219 

the blunders of one's friends who say they have 
seen you in such and such a place, when you 
yourself had said that you were somewhere else. 
It must keep one on pins and needles all the 
time. 

Mme. Longuyon. Bah! 

[She questions Mme. de Cattenieres with a 
movement of her head] 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Pshaw! 

Mme. Longuyon. One gets used to it. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. They say so, at 
least. [A pause] 

Mme. Longuyon. They say so. You under- 
stand that we know nothing about this our- 
selves. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Oh, my dear, if La 
Belleuse heard you now! 

Mme. Longuyon. La Belleuse! Anyway, 
he is really nothing. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. As a physician — 
but only as a physician. [To Lucienne] Isn't it 
so, dear? 

Lucienne. Surely. [To Mme. Longuyon] 
But I thought that you were on such good 
terms with him? 

Mme. Longuyon. You must not speak about 
that! Such things one does not confess. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. That was only to 



220 Brieux 

hide the game he was playing. Husbands sus- 
pect men of whom their wives speak ill. 

Lucienne. [To Mme, de Cattenieres, forcing 
a laugh] Ah, ah! And you do not confess 
either! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Shocked] What are 
you thinking of? I have a liaison! I am a 
widow, my dear! 

Lucienne. And when your husband was 
alive? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Dreaming] Ah, it 
was nice then! [With a vague smile] Poor 
Raymond! 

Mme. Longuyon. He knew nothing? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. I would never have 
forgiven myself for an awkward move that could 
have disturbed his happiness and comfort. I 
esteemed him greatly. 

Lucienne. And nevertheless — 

Mme. de Cattenieres. My dear Lucienne, 
you will understand me later on in life: A 
woman never does wrong until after her hus- 
band knows about it. 

Mme. Longuyon. Of course. As long as 
we know how to hide things we are harming no 
one. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [With lowered eyes] 
I might dare to add: on the contrary — but 
I am talking seriously. A woman's duty to- 



The Escape 221 

ward her husband is to make him happy. My 
husband was the luckiest of men. 

Lucienne. [Laughing] At cards, too? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Quickly] Well, no, 
my dear — It was unbelievable: he lost all the 
time. 

Lucienne. And the first intrigue — no emo- 
tions, no remorse? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Yes. A great deal. 
What made that first adventure so delicious. 
[Lost in her thoughts] I remember — [A pause] 

Lucienne. What, tell us. 

Mme. Longuyon. Ah, yes, tell us. You 
remember? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Oh, it was nothing! 
— a coincidence, a mere detail — insignificant 
to others — but something which I cannot 
think of without a sort of delicious sorrow. 
That first time was on the first anniversary of 
' our marriage. 

Mme. Longuyon. The delay was seasonable. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. I know it very 
well. But just the same — when I returned and 
found my husband with his gift and a smile 
upon his face — I felt a little something. He 
was so confident! If I had known — 

Lucienne. You would not have — ? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Very serious] No! 
I would have waited a little — 



222 Brieux 

Lucienne. [With a forced laugh] Ha, ha, 
ha! — that is charming. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. What is the matter 
with you? 

Lucienne. Oh, nothing — what else do they 
say? Tell me some other stories. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. [Ashamed] Oh, Lu- 
cienne ! 

Lucienne. About your good friends — about 
their husbands. Has Monsieur de Benchene a 
mistress? And Paul de Maucour? And Paul 
de Maucour? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. No, not yet. 

Mme. Longuyon. And he is married a whole 
year already! 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Yes, I do not under- 
stand it! 

Lucienne. Can't you tell me anything else? 
Ah, I wanted to ask you. Have you seen the 
new pantomime? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Yes. 

Lucienne. What is it about? 

Mme. Longuyon. Celia will tell you about 
it. I should never dare. Au revoir, my dears; 
I have this valse with Dr. La Belleuse — 

Lucienne. Then we'll see you later. 

[Mme. Longuyon goes out] 

Mme. de Cattenieres. She would never 
dare! She makes me laugh. 



The Escape 223 

Lucienne. Yes, doesn't she? Well, tell me 
about it. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Oh, it cannot be 
told. 

Lucienne. Bah! We are entre nous. 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Why, you see, they 
had to make a pantomime out of it. If you 
go to see it take a black lace fan with you. 
One can see perfectly through it and one can- 
not be seen. 

Lucienne. It has made a big hit, hasn't it? 

Mme. de Cattenieres. They have had to 
give matinees — Why, Madame Longuyon took 
her mother to see it. 

Lucienne. What was the matter with me 
just now? You did not take it ill. I see 
now how ridiculous I must have been. 

[Bertry enters] 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Oh! — my dear! 
Are you going to dance? 

Lucienne. Yes. 

Bertry. I'd like to have a word with you, 
Lucienne. 

Lucienne. Very well. [Softly to Mme. de 
Cattenieres, whom she takes to the door] I 
wanted to ask you something — [She hesitates] 
Bah! why not? If you should see Paul de 
Maucour tell him to come here after my father 
goes. I have something to say to him. 



224 Brieux 

Mme. de Cattenieres. Very well, my dear. 

[She goes. Lucienne closes the door] 

Bertry. Jean has just told me what has 
happened between you twq. You are going to 
make up, aren't you, my dear? 

Lucienne. [Nervous] He sent you? 

Bertry. Yes. He is sorry for the words 
that escaped him. 

Lucienne. He is giving both himself and 
you useless trouble. 

Bertry. What do you intend to do? 

Lucienne. I wish some one would tell me. 

Bertry. You make every one around you un- 
happy, Lucienne. 

Lucienne. Whom do I make unhappy? My 
husband? I warned him before our marriage. 
He knew what chances he was taking when he 
married me: he wanted to play the game just 
the same, and he lost it. All the worse. I 
suffer as much from it as he does. Is it my 
uncle? He would laugh at anything that hap- 
pens, and he is overjoyed at his nomination. 
Is it you? That is possible, but it is justice. 

Bertry. Because? 

Lucienne. Because all that has passed is 
your work. 

Bertry. Please explain what you mean. 

Lucienne. I cannot. You must understand. 

Bertry. I beg you to explain. 



The Escape 225 

Lucienne. I should not know how without 
seeming to be disrespectful. 

Bertry. Have I not always been good to 
you? 

Lucienne. Too good. 

Bertry. And you reproach me for that? 

Lucienne. Yes. 

Bertry. I again repeat that I do not under- 
stand you. 

Lucienne. You realize, don't you, that I 
deserve some pity? My union with Jean is 
broken, my happiness is lost. What is to be- 
come of me now? No, let me speak! Ordi- 
nary, happy life in mediocrity, the happiness of 
the fireplace, the beloved husband, the babe that 
one rocks — I am not made for all that. Every one 
has told me so, and even Jean ended by saying 
it. I reproach you for having given me an 
education that made my destiny so repulsive 
to me. If you had left me where I was born I 
should not have suffered. 

Bertry. So that is my crime? 

Lucienne. That is the reason why I suffer, 
and it is directly due to you. Without this ed- 
ucation I should be like so many others, un- 
conscious and happy. 

Bertry. Happy in misery! 

Lucienne. There cannot be misery where there 
is no responsibility. 



226 Brieux 

Bertry. My daughter! 

Lucienne. Alas! yes! your daughter! You 
wanted to bring me up to your level! You 
should have paid no attention to me; then I 
should not have been Monsieur Bertry's daughter, 
but simply the daughter of Sophie Claret. Why 
did you acknowledge me? 

Bertry. [Without raising his voice] Lucienne! 
Why did I acknowledge you! I'll tell you, my 
child. I loved your mother, who was my com- 
panion for four years, very dearly. If I was 
wrong the only excuse I can give is my youth 
and my need for affection. I have nothing to 
tell you about your mother's life before I met 
her; sad to say, you know about it. When 
you were born I felt myself bound to her by 
even closer ties, I felt that a new duty was im- 
posed upon me: to watch over you, and to 
make your life as sweet as possible in order, if 
possible, to atone for the illegitimacy of your 
birth. Then your mother fell sick. You will 
never know how deeply she loved you. You 
will never know how many tears she shed on 
your account. 

Lucienne. [A little softened] Why did she 
weep on my account? 

Bertry. Because she loved you, and be- 
cause your future worried her. Her fondest 
dream was to sacrifice everything to you. Then 



The Escape 227 

she reproached herself for having given you her 
name in the first transports of maternal love, 
and she often wept about it. [Gradually 
Bertry's voice changes] When she felt the end 
coming, she called me to her side and said: 
"It is best for me to die, for I should have 
spoiled her later on, anyway." 

Lucienne. [Moved] She said that? 

Bertry. I'll show you a letter that she 
wrote me about it. It was she who entreated 
me to acknowledge you. And I did it, Lucienne, 
for her sake and for yours. [He is choked with 
emotion] The sheet of paper on which you were 
acknowledged as my daughter I took to her on 
what was to be her last day. She still had 
enough strength to read and her face, ravaged 
by pain and suffering, became calm and beau- 
tiful once more, and was lighted up with joy; 
two tears fell from the corners of her eyes onto 
the pillow; and she thanked me! She thanked 
me, Lucienne, and then she passed away. 
You see how she loved you. 

Lucienne. [Softly, her hands clasped] Mother! 
[She weeps silently] 

Bertry. [Without looking up to heaven] Oh, 
my darling! If she only could hear you! [A 
pause] Tell me in what other way you think 
I was wrong. 

Lucienne. I ask your forgiveness. 



228 Brieux 

Bertry. If you want me to forgive you ab- 
solutely you will make up with Jean. 

Lucienne. That is not possible. Jean said 
so himself. There are certain powers against 
which one cannot struggle. 

Bertry. But I know you so well, I know 
what you really are; you can triumph over your- 
self, Lucienne. 

Lucienne. No. I have read too many of 
Dr. Bertry's books and I have listened to him too 
often not to know what to expect. I am a 
scholar, you see! And besides. I truly be- 
lieve that I never loved any one but Paul de 
Maucour. It was he whom I should have 
married. 

Bertry. What are you going to do? 

Lucienne. I don't know. 

Bertry. What answer can I give Jean? 
Can I tell him that there is any hope? 

Lucienne. If you want to. 

Bertry. But you Jove me, don't you? 

[Lucienne embraces him. He goes out — Lu- 
cienne is alone for a moment; then Paul enters] 

Lucienne. Here he is! This is the deciding 
point of my life. 

Paul. Well, you did not come this after- 
noon. Didn't you receive my letter? 

Lucienne. Yes. 

Paul. Well? 



The Escape 229 

Lucienne. Did you really think that I 
would come? 

Paul. Yes, because I believe that you 
love me. 

Lucienne. You do? 

Paul. Well, don't you? 

Lucienne. [Softly] Yes. [Raising her voice] 
Then it is understood that we love each other. 
Now speak. [She sits down] 

Paul. Ah, how sweet it sounds to have you 
say that at last! You see, it was decreed that 
you and I were made for each other, and noth- 
ing in the world could overcome that. Lucienne, 
you are the dearest, most enchanting creature! 
In spite of the fact that our union will not be 
blessed, this secret marriage, which we will 
freely contract, will be firmer and more de- 
licious than any other. 

[He tries to grasp her hand] 

Lucienne. [Drawing her hand away] No. 

Paul. Why not? 

Lucienne. And this dream — how are you 
going to realize it? 

Paul. What I should like to do, my darling, 
would be to carry you far away in my arms, 
far from all who know us, into a distant, un- 
known land, where I could give you my whole 
life in exchange for yours. 

Lucienne. You would do that? 



230 Brieux 

Paul. I wish with all my soul that I could. 

Lucienne. What keeps you from doing it? 

Paul. Just think, my dear, of the sorrow 
that we should leave in our wake. I am not 
talking of my relatives only, but of yours, of 
Alice, of your husband; I ask myself whether 
we have the right to create a happiness for our- 
selves built on the sorrows of so many people 
who have never caused us any unhappiness, and 
whom our flight would cause the most acute 
anguish. 

Lucienne. Then? 

Paul. Don't you think I am right? 

Lucienne. Yes, yes. 

Paul. Oh, it is costing me enough! to re- 
nounce this perfect happiness, this absolute 
abandon — alas, impossible! 

Lucienne. Impossible ! 

Paul. I have thought of other things. This 
is what I have planned. 

Lucienne. Ah, let me hear! 

Paul. We will get a little place in some 
quiet part of Paris, a little nest lost among the 
foliage and the flowers. That will be our 
home. We will meet there as often as we 
can. And this wonderful mystery of ours will 
be one of the sources of our joy. We alone 
shall know that we love each other. [Lucienne 



The Escape 231 

rises] Won't we be supremely happy, Lu- 
cienne? 

Lucienne. Perhaps. Have you thought of 
the constant lies that we shall have to tell? 

Paul. [Standing] Of course, and I regret 
it as much as you do. 

Lucienne. But it will be nothing; probably 
everything will go well. 

Paul. Why yes. 

Lucienne. In order to meet we shall have 
to write. And isn't that rather dangerous? 
Our absences will be noticed; we shall be fol- 
lowed. 

Paul. Of course as things stand with Jean 
now our situation is more precarious than it 
would be ordinarily. 

Lucienne. What do you mean? 

Paul. If he were not suspicious of me now; 
if — 

Lucienne. If? 

Paul. If only you were on apparently good 
terms with him. We should have a hundred 
opportunities to meet. 

Lucienne. But the situation is not like that 
now. 

Paul. There would be a way — only — 

Lucienne. Oh, come now, my friend. What 
is keeping you back? 



232 Brieux 

Paul. I tell you in advance it will cost me 
a lot — a lot — but — 

Lucienne. But love excuses everything. 

Paul. [Approaching her] Yes, doesn't it? 
Well, this is what I thought. If we could 
both make up with Jean we should at least be 
in a normal situation. 

Lucienne. "Normal situation" is charming. 

Paul. [Flattered] You are too good. But 
doesn't that plan suit you? 

Lucienne. I must confess that at first I 
was a bit shocked. 

Paul. Very well, I will think about it, I 
will find something else. The main thing now 
is that we are sure of our love for each other. 
For you love me, don't you? 

Lucienne. Can you doubt it after what we 
have just said to one another? 

Paul. Let me look into your eyes — [She 
rises, and he holds her] You have never been so 
beautiful. [Very softly, and putting his arm 
around her waist] You will be the most ador- 
able mistress. [Lucienne looks at him for a 
long time] 

Lucienne. Coward! You are a coward, I 
say! In the end, all of this hurts me, revolts 
me, and I cannot contain myself any longer. 
[Becoming very excited] Ah, what things, what 
ignoble things you have dared to propose to 



The Escape 233 

me! I am to become reconciled with Jean, you 
will be reconciled with him, your friend, and 
steal his wife away from him. That was 
what you desired! Adultery may perhaps be 
excused when it binds two people until death, 
but you do not desire that kind. What you 
desired was banal intrigue, with all of its lies 
and hypocrisies. But you will have to search 
for that elsewhere. In vain I have striven 
with all of my strength, but I cannot — I can- 
not play that role ! I have tried — yes. 
On receipt of your letter, I went to your ren- 
dez-vous — I arrived in front of the house in 
which you were waiting for me, and all of a 
sudden I had a clear and complete vision of the 
abjection into which I was about to throw my- 
self. I got into the carriage that had brought 
me, I came back here, and, thank God, if I was 
aware of the degradation of lying before my de- 
parture, I am at least ignorant of the shame of 
the return. 

Paul. Then you do not love me? 

Lucienne. It is evident that I do not, 
since you have made my whole being revolt as 
from a sort of contamination. 

Paul. And you do not believe in my love 
for you? 

Lucienne. Your love! It disgusts me! It 
disgusts me! Your love produces nothing but 



234 Brieux 

lies, cowardliness, filth! I recognize that kind 
of love: it is the sort of homage which others 
have insulted me with for a long time now. 
I have seen it often, too often, thanks to the 
promiscuity of the balls, shining in men's eyes, 
and it is the same I have just seen glittering in 
your eyes. 

Paul. [Animated, going towards her] Lucienne! 

Lucienne. Yes, it is the same, for you are 
like all the others; it is always the same con- 
tracted mouth, the same trembling hands, the 
same gentle hypocrisy, the same bestial and in- 
sulting desires! Ah, if every woman, if every 
young girl even, would dare to tell of the ig- 
nominies to which men have attempted to sub- 
ject her, if she would dare to repeat the in- 
expressible propositions made to her by young 
men, old men, men who are reputed to be 
virtuous and faithful! And all of this is done 
within two feet of the husband or father, whose 
hands they are going to shake when they leave, 
after their plans have been checked! Ah, what 
cowards you all are! And what audacity you 
need to dare to exalt this love which you have 
so debased! Now go, will you? Go! 

Paul [Approaching her] No. [A pause] If 
your friends, Madame de Cattenieres and 
Madame Longuyon were to hear you they 
would never recognize their recent laughing 



The Escape 235 

companion — Lucienne. [He steps up to her] 

Lucienne. Leave me! 

Paul, No! 

Lucienne. [Cries out, as she is being followed 
around the room by Paul] Jean! 

Paul. [Trying to put his hand on her 
mouth; very gravely] I love you. 

Lucienne. Jean! 

Paul. You have played with me, that's 
enough. 

Lucienne. Jean! 

[Jean appears. Lucienne utters a cry of tri- 
umph and throws herself into his arms] 

Jean. Lucienne! 

Lucienne. Protect me, Jean, protect me! 
[A pause] 

Paul. I am at your service, sir. 

[Jean holds Lucienne in his arms. He hides 
his great inner joy. He replies to Paul in a 
scornfully smiling manner. Softly] 

Jean. Go — that is all — I do not hate 
you. My wife told you to go — so go — that 
is all I ask of you. Go! 

Paul. But — 

Jean. Go! 

[Paul goes out] 

Jean. [Still holding Lucienne in his arms] 
My dear Lucienne. 

Lucienne. [To herself, after drawing a little 



236 Brieux 

away] Ah! — am I a good woman just the 
same? 

Jean. Lucienne! My wife! Do you love 
me? 

Lucienne. I do not doubt myself any 
longer. But what they said, Jean. And 
their science? 

[Voices are heard in front of the door] 

Jean. Science. But what is the matter? 

Lucienne. Yes, what is it? 

[The door opens] 

Bertry. [Still outside] This way. Lift the 
tapestry. Hurry ! 

[Bertry and a servant enter supporting the 
doctor between them. The doctor is very pale 
and can hardly walk] 

Lucienne. Uncle! 

Bertry. [To Jean] The armchair- — that's 
it. [To the servant] Lower the portieres, and 
then you may go. 

The Doctor. [To the servant as he is going 
out] Wait. Say — say that it is nothing. 

[The servant leaves] 

Lucienne. Send for some help. 

The Doctor. No, no! And above all, let 
no one hear of this! All I need is a bit of 
fresh air! 

[He opens his vest. Braces are visible. Lu- 
cienne, at his right, tries to undo his necktie, but 



The Escape 237 

she does not do it quickly enough; the doctor takes 
his collar with his left hand and tears it off. To 
his brother] Tell me — did any one see me? 

Bertry. No. 

The Doctor. How did it happen? 

Bertry. You left the salon. You were 
alone with me. Suddenly, you turned fright- 
fully pale — and held on to me to keep from 
falling. Then you said: "Like the other one 
— suddenly — like the other one, Andre ! " 
You almost lost consciousness. I called a 
servant — we brought you here. And that is 
the whole story. 

Lucienne. What can be done? 

The Doctor. What is there to be done? 
If I only knew, my dear child! [Softly , almost 
with shame] But I know nothing! All I can 
do is to wait for the next crisis, tomorrow, in a 
week — and so it will go on — until it carries 
me off some day. I have been suffering like 
this for years now, do you understand, for 
years ! 

Lucienne. Years? 

The Doctor. Yes, I hid it from everybody. 
I was ashamed of my pains which I could not 
relieve — I hid them — on account of the pride, 
you know, the pride of the scientist. Now you see 
my misery — you see nothing but a poor human 
rag before you — like the others, like all the 



238 Brieux 

others, in that frightful distress at feeling one's 
life blood ebbing. Still I can try something just 
the same. 

Perhaps others know — Richon — call Richon! 
Beg him to prepare something for me, to find — 
to invent. No! No! [To himself] Find, in- 
vent. Now I am as foolish as my patients! 
[Grandly] If I believed in God I would get on 
my knees and pray to Him for a miracle. [He 
weeps. After a pause] But I do not believe 
in Him! I do not even believe in science — 
and I have not believed in it for a long time 
now. 

Jean. [To Lucienne] You hear, Lucienne, 
you hear! 

The Doctor. [Beating the arms of his arm- 
chair] Science ! science ! science ! — ah, ah ! — 
One imagines a million things are the matter! — 
one wants to formulate laws of life — and is 
present, powerless, at one's own agony! We 
understand nothing that happens about us, we 
understand nothing that is happening within 
us. Why am I going to die? My arteries 
will begin to harden. Why? How? What is 
hardening of the arteries? Do you want me to 
tell you? We know nothing about it, nothing, 
nothing, nothing! — we have found nothing but 
words! [A pause. The Doctor rises] I'm 
better again. I'm quite relieved. 



The Escape 239 

Bertry. [After a pause] Look at these chil- 
dren. You failed to make them unhappy. Tell 
them that your statements were made at a 
venture; tell them that we all have energy in 
us to fight against hereditary blemishes, and 
that no one is born who is condemned in ad- 
vance to utter despair. 

Lucienne. [Supplicating, with great emotion] 
Yes! Yes! say that your distressing theories 
are vain; say it so that I shall feel myself 
delivered from the heavy fatality that seems to 
hang over me; so that I can feel free; say it, 
say it! so that I shall know that we are not 
dominated by the tyranny of the dead! 

Jean. Do not repeat your despairing max- 
ims! I beg of you not to! I entreat you in the 
name of all the unfortunates upon whom weighs 
the restlessness of a doubtful heredity, and who, 
more than the others, have need of confidence 
and courage. 

The Doctor. [After a long pause] I have 
nothing to add to what you have just heard. 
My — pride failed to make you lose. I ask 
your forgiveness. 

Jean. [To Lucienne] We are free at last! 
Do you believe me? I love you! Do you be- 
lieve me? 

Lucienne. I love you and I believe you! 
I love you and I believe you! [They embrace]-C 






240 Brieux 

La Belleuse. [Appearing in the doorway] 
Dear master, — they are all waiting for you to 
begin your lecture. 

[The doctor stands erect. He again takes on 
the air of the first act. A long pause, then 
pointing to his order of the commander] 

The Doctor. I'll put that on again — and 
I'll come at once. What was I going to say 
to them? [As he goes he prepares the beginning 
of his speech] Gentlemen and colleagues, the 
sovereignty of science. 

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